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After much consideration, I have determined the most appropriate way to conduct a commemoration for the dearly deceased Hoodiman is a collective effort to remember him as he would want to be remembered -- with a different sort of RIP.

To that end, I have recreated and quoted his signature below to inspire and remind those he's left behind of his legacy.


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READ! Collective works. Go to it.)
Before an important decision someone clutches your hand-a glimpse of gold in the iron-gray, the proof of all you have never dared to believe. (Dag Hammarskjold)
Poetry, like consciousness, drops the insignificant digits.(Frank Herbert)

So let's get writing! Our prompt is Hoodiman and his works on this site. If you have any memories you want to share of Hoodi in poetry form, that's more than welcome as well.
how did it happen?
Aehlae's avatar

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spill these collective memories into the bowl of the sky
where they mingle into a bittersweet stratus soliloquy
where we can "bury him in poetry"

we throw words on his grave instead of
dirt, scatter books instead of headstones.
where is the wise man?
he is buried in books, words, as he
always was.


the best ******** thing i can write sweatdrop cry
how did it happen?

According to Adi's Facebook message, it was a series of seizures. I don't know anything more than that, sorry.
Astaire's avatar

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I'm so glad you started this, Aphrodite. I'll be coming back to post my piece once it's done. heart
ditto that. He shall live on in memory!
bohemian_lover_boy's avatar

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Memorizing mentor, count your
syllables and speech
(and don't forget to Rob the opposition,

We were not met eye to eye
Yet our hands still wove words
With flourish and colour
Spreading across landscapes both yours and mine.
Edit 3


Your body will be harnessed by earth, swallowed
by eons of sand that will bury your remains, reminiscent
of the hourglass eventually lost to specks of time.

Like ancient societies existent long before your flesh,
burial has evolved into our ritual of funeral and grief.
Similar to people at a waking procession, my head bows

mantis-like, lurking in silence as I look into the eyes
of this man and view the loins of his past as he stood
as proud as the funeral pyre, crowning each figure of death.

Instead of historical glory, we will have maintenance
of your sagacity in our hearts. Just like a wilting flower
my hands fold in mid-curl for you, keeping composure

as you lie in a bower, nostalgic of the rustic dwellings of the past.
One day, I will obtain a wisdom like yours. Perhaps then
as my time comes to an end, my perspicacity won't be so blinded.
Have Your Pi's avatar

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I'm still putting something together, but in the meantime, I thought it fit to share an old collaboration that we wrote together. I remember we meant it to go on for longer than it did, but neither of us could say anything else after the first two stanzas.

Color me cabin fever,
paint those windows darkly.
Aluminum licks and aftertaste of mint,
tiptoeing through...stomping over everyone.
Give the world its dew, and remember:
that means "sparkle"!
A hunter takes on odd garb
in these technologically superior times.
"Access denied."
"Please enter your conformity."
Color me cabin fever,
keep those hearts far from stark.

Shade me social anxiety,
take the graphite to the curtains.
Deco used to bloom in noontide
shade, squeaking hueless petals
past watchful hands, begging
a little more time.
There are stranger ways, I'm sure,
to open a room, with
a saw, a table, and
half a wit.
Shade me social anxiety,
block the whole from forming.
Jesus. I can't believe he passed away. Just a few weeks ago he asked to see some of my poetry to read.

Anyone know his real name? I'd like to see if his Facebook is still up and see if I can pay some respects for him on his wall if it's not private.

The rebel prince!'s avatar

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You've been Shatnerized.

in the endless crafty mines
you offered a lantern
so i could stop bumping my head
though i may have ignored your help
and been crushed once or...um twice...
who keeps count anyway!
i'm no longer buried under a cave,
thank you for helping me see
illumination as i wave up to the sky.
I wrote a poem for Hoodi and then
deleted it in order
to commemorate the number
of times he wrote
a post aimed at or responding to
me, thought better
of it, and then
deleted it--which,
as it happens, is what
he did the last time he said
something to me.

/chopped prosaic statement
I wrote a crit and he resisted,
squirming away from snakeskin I was left holding it
sandblasted. At that time we were split,
between a toothpaste newborn and horned revision;
and now I would strut in with an alternate version
of him, but I can't find it.

Just as MajGyver detects a transient space
patched together from framed bubbles and deletions
so do I recall the Hoodi-lockpick set
which exploded doors upon completion.

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