Some found your stuff outrageous — but I knew
what kind of strait-laced guy you chose to be
behind the showmanship. Clue after clue
signaled Miltonic rigor. Laxity
is never at the root of ecstasy–
and ecstasy, elation high and true,
was all you wanted us to hear and see.
You always did as William Blake would do.
I understood. I knew an angel flew
through every sky of possibility
your voice would contemplate, then raise anew.
You’d tasted fruit from life’s Edenic tree
like all of us — and, exiled, didn’t sue.
I’ll miss the artist known back then as you.