“Occasionally I think of death. I can easily believe in the
disintegration of the body, but cannot believe that all I
have learned, experienced, accumulated can disappear
and be wasted. Like a river, it must flow somewhere.”
-- Anais Nin

In Memory of
Michael Angelo Colleli
1971-2006

I: Zero Meridian

I retraced my steps
charting my friendship with him.
I called that morning,
got his voicemail.
Called our friend Heidi
who told me they talked last week.
He told her he’d be coming to Connecticut in two weeks to visit.

Four hours later, Jorge tracked down my L.A. number.
Called me with the news of his death
and that Michael had been in a coma for a week.
I rushed out of work.
Called Heidi.
Drove home crying, hardly able to see the road.
Tears hit my shirt.
I looked at the round water spots on it,
how the blue fabric darkens
and remembered the shirt was Michael’s.

 

VII: Zenith

A Saturday night, 5 years earlier, Michael and I leave Covivant Gallery.
On the way home, on a whim,
we stop at The Harbor Club, an all-black gay club.
The doorman rude and the cover too high,
we turned around at the door. We walk to the back of the building
climb up a dilapidated deck and fire escape. I push open a window.
Smoke and music pour out. I jump in first. Michael follows my lead.
Inside we are without the doorman-issued armbands
or the skin color of the other patrons.
We go to the bar, order shots, make a toast, get another drink.
I’m wearing a shirt I bought from him at If & Only If.
A large tiger on the front
and on the shoulder, in small text, it reads
The Greatest Show on Earth.
I feel out of place, get a bit nervous. A large woman
in hot pants and tight shirt grabs Michael’s shoulder,
tells him how much she loves his hair.
He tells her he loves her style too. They hit it off.
We all hit the dance floor.
Michael dances with slightly bent knees,
his two hands, palms forward, in the air, feeling the beat,
almost like a mime might feel in an invisible box.
His eyes closed, head nodding, hands moving, feet shuffling.
His dancing was the greatest show on earth.

 

X: Heuristics

Retracing letters, phone calls, mementos of him
tired me after awhile.
They were not replacements for Michael.
Then, I remembered the last time I saw him.
It wasn’t when we said goodbye at the bar on my birthday.
It was the day before I was leaving.
I wandered around the West End looking
for a famous bookstore, frustrated at being lost.
I pass by a restaurant with large windows and see Michael dining there.
I assume his companion is the man he told me of earlier.
I wanted to rush up to the glass
knock on it, or push my lips against it and blow
a grotesque adolescent gesture I think he’d find funny.
Instead, I notice his phone on the table and call him from the street on my cell.
He answers, I tell him to “look out the window.”
He laughs and says,
“Get in here young man.”
I come in, nervous I’ve interrupted the date.
We talk for a bit.
Michael invites me to sit. I decline.
I don’t want to overstay or interrupt.
We talked about the food, the coincidence,
my flight back. We said we’ll talk soon
and I don’t know how we said goodbye.
I know I shook his date’s hand goodbye.
Did I lean down to peck Michael on the cheek?
Or hold his hand for a moment after I shook his date’s hand?
Or did he spring up from the table and hug me goodbye?

 

© 2007 Steven Reigns - Contributor's Bio