Jason Boone died young in a freak air accident. The flight he was on suddenly lost 10,000 feet of altitude. He was the only passenger to lose his life on that flight.

Painting progression link: Painting Progression: The rest is a faint echo

2001 untitled poem of Jason Boone

To die is nothing new,
but then again there’s nothing all that novel
in living, said Esenin in his own blood.

He’s right, but he's missing something,
I told the girls who lingered too late at the party,
as I, drunk, started my Russian-poetry routine.

On the one hand,
everything that even counts as an experience
had spilled out and evaporated
before the summer of my twelfth year.
Before I’d even begun producing all the relevant fluids.

The rest is a faint echo
in a desiccated husk:
a clumsy re-enactment.

And yet there’s something there to re-enact,
isn’t there, girls?

This particular form of the eternal return
was never selected, as far as I can recall,
as one selects pay-per-view porn,
while waiting out some goddamn pointless conference
in Rome, say, or somewhere else one is supposed to want to go,
imagining at least a bit of edification
from the pan-European slogans
at the bottom of the screen:
Fick mich zwischen den Brüsten.
Stoss mich von hinten.
Baise-moi sous le soleil du Maroc, sur la plage.
Serbia: 100% sexy!

No, fate is consolidated before
it is comprehended: in the backyard swimming pool,
mom playing mother manatee, a baby sea-calf
holding on to the strings of her top, to the
peeling shoulder of that Fresno summer,
on the cushion of her bottoms,
for dear life,
on the journey to the deep-end,
and safely back.