R.I.P. Peter Conti (aka Peter of the Earth)

I hadn't seen him in a few years, drifting apart when we moved to Virginia and never reconnecting after we returned, and had no idea he was sick, much less dying.

He missed his 30th birthday (today, Saturday) by one day.

I'll always remember the carefree Peter who let it all hang out when the music was playing and he was surrounded by friends. The Peter in the picture here (at the National Poetry Slam in Chicago, 1999, courtesy of David Huang), who stood by me as a friend that entire season when 'a little bit louder' was born into a community divided. The Peter who could go toe-to-toe with me in a debate without ever letting it get personal, because in the end, we were fighting for the same thing.

The Peter who introduced me to a kind of spirituality that didn't demand a church or a bible or any outward symbols, simply a desire to connect with something larger than one's self and draw strength from it.

The Peter we always joked about being my gay twin brother, and who, despite his own insecurities about his poetry and his performances, inspired me every single time he got on stage. The Peter who brought me to full tears three different times with one of those performances, more than any other poet I know.

The Peter who had a way with words and never, I think, truly realized how special and talented he was.

Not even death can take that Peter away from me. Or from anyone else who knew him well enough to call him friend.

Rest in peace, Peter.

And if there's anyone who could figure out a way to come back now and then and watch over his friends, I believe you'd be the one to pull it off. So I'll be looking for you every time the music's playing loud enough to get me on the dance floor; for that sign that it's okay to let loose sometimes and simply enjoy the moment.

Thank you for your friendship. You'll be missed, but never forgotten.

The Angelic

Angel joined my 8th grade class 
seven months to graduation

                I hated him
                pegged him the type to pick fights 
                with buck toothed patos
                like me
                -but he didn't

Instead, he dated my best friend Victoria
became my friend too
and in two months had mastered the racket of the lunchroom Spit circle
slapping cards and smashing fingers
of boys not quick enough to grab the empty pile
I'd smile knowing each win
shifted "cool" 
to a new elite

He didn't speak much of his being a foster-child
his mother-
or brother who made it to the home of a social worker.  Baring his light like a
cross, he kept a sunlit disposition long enough for Ms. Valdez, the ESL teacher,
to find him too late to save or sooth scars incurred by the system.  Carving a few
more when she decided to send him back.

final days lapsed-
stitching sunsets to our chest
leaking candlelit eternity
through stretched liquid wax
waiting for the wick to burn

       The night before he was scheduled to leave he came to my house. We didn't
    plan on his staying. My parents had gone shopping and told us he should be
    gone by the time they got back. Defying them, I convinced my siblings to do
    the same, help me hide him-splaying bellies on the floor as we played spit.
    He was quiet. I remember it was a Tuesday because "Who's the Boss" was on
    and in my recent self-liberation from several years of television restriction,
    I scheduled my life around ABC's evening line-up.
       My parents got home and I made Angel hide behind the bureau. Bringing up a
    box of Ring Dings for our evening meal. Leaving a pillow, blanket, and enough
    room to turn in his sleep, I climbed in my bed resigned to retire with
    pre-recorded laughter shadowing the room from a 12" black and white screen.
    But beneath syncopated chuckles I heard whimpers. Rushing to the bureau I found
    Angel crying, refusing to let me console him. Demanding I didn't touch him-that
    I didn't love him-that no-one did.
       "How do you put some-one you love behind a dresser," he said. 
       The metaphor would take ten years to decipher. Though prematurely making
    sense of it at the time, not fearing my father's heavy hand and belt, being
    bigger than Angel, I wrapped my arms around his flailing body, laying him to
    rest on my bed.  Chest touching chest, his anger subsided.  We decided to plan
    escape.
       As sleep took him from me I felt blood surging between fingers and legs.
    Jumping up I curled up in the big furry chair at the foot of my bed, ashamed
    of the erection I concealed when he questioned my abrupt departure.
       "What's wrong?" he asked.
       "Nothing," I replied. "Just planning."
       I watched him sleep. Waking him when sun burning through the window wasn't
    enough to stir consciousness. My parents already left for work.
       So the plan was, we'd go back to school to tell Victoria and she could come
    too if she wanted.  Only, thing is, one of Ms. Valdez's students saw us from the
    school bus and told her. She had ample time to prepare for our arrival.

                They caught us in the schoolyard
                The Principal, 
                Police,
                Ms. Valdez waiting
                taking him kicking
                buck teeth ripping clenched hands that stopped us
                from breaking loose
                arms locked for one last pact
                to stay together
                if only in the mind.

11 years past and I have moved back to my childhood home. A hand-drawn portrait with
these words sit on an alter to Shango template poems I never wrote or finished.
Candles cast shadows on his image, some nights

When I think about the Angel I've become
the angels I've replaced him with
or what if we would have run in the other direction
Black wings fleshing out metaphors
wondering what happens when I finally figure it out.
Why I can't seem to love like that again
Why I believe I can
Innocent
And eternal

Life 
is a flame on liquid wax
A CD scratched
on an angle of song
Waiting for the wick to burn
Maybe

We all want to be towering infernos
Pray flame catches something before we die
He is still flickering in my eyes
I
Am burning on air
 
(c) 2000, peter of the earth