Oh, Allen, Dear 
   Why are the sounds so still? 
   No howl or generation beat, 
   and you so far from us. 

   We had no way of knowing 
   when you were around. 

   Funny how just four days ago 
   I wrote you a song 
   that more than wrote itself. 

   It reminded me of a summer long ago 
   when we sang Father Death 
   into Todd Larsen's mikes 
   for PBS Frisco to air, 
   and you had roses named after you 
   on Arthur's and Kits' porch. 

   You told me how much you hated Hoover. 
   You were surprised I had worked for him. 

   You went to the Mon, 
   chanted for the valley from the water's edge, 
   voice clear and free of earth and bond, 
   more ethereal than a dharma shroud 
   real as Neal's ashes. 

   Now I know you are amongst the gods 
   and still you nurture me with a need of 
   the memories and of the glory in your voice 
   even as you were gone Saturday afternoon 
   and all the rest of us must stay.