Parker Zane Allen 1979-2006

one of our best friends (SF group), Parker Zane Allen, passed away last night in his apartment in San Francisco...

...from his mom "Parker Zane Allen died late friday night after a two-year battle with lung cancer. He did not go gently. He fought to the last breath, but his heart simply stopped. He died in his mother's arms, with his father close by. He was only 26. Information regarding his memorial is pending...but it is sure to be a most raucous, irreverent, sarcastic celebration / Irish Wake. With love to you all, Zane's Mommie"...

we love you brother...i think i'm in shock...i don't know what else/ or how else to say anything right now...i love you Zane...

in loving memory of our brother/ Detumescence author

from Zane's Dating Tips with the Gangland Massacre of the Heart

FLOWERS

Traditional, Vibrant, say so many things.

You screwed up. Too drunk for breakfast, she cooked. Called you five times. Told her you were on your way every time. You never were.
Her scrambled eggs are always too soupy any way. And you hate bell peppers. You think she should know this by now, but she doesn’t, and you think it means something, but it doesn’t.
Swear you love her, as you get off the train by her house. Swear it and try to remember things that you have done. Try and remeber your second date. Don’t. Think about what this means.
Flouriest has a big glass window, hums with refrigeators. Pillars of orchid stared at you, frozen in color.
You poke around, you don’t know how to poke around. Touch leaves, test their firmness, touch the lips of a lilly. The flouriest, whom you have not seen tells you not to do that.
Apologized to a woman more attractive than your girlfriend. It smells in here. Think of how she smells outside of this place, covered in the oils of the petals, hands dusted with pollen, small cuts and scratches from the nettles and thorns.
Ask for roses, say: you guess…
Who are these for?
Say your mother.
She laughs and has great teeth, the kind that are white and kinked and crossed in all the right ways. Maybe you would like something more appropriate for mom. You would.
She does something with purple flowers that are soft and wavy, like slept in sheets. She does something with flowers you cannot pronounce even though she tells you three times. It doesn’t fit in your mouth. White things, sticks with tiny white pollips on the end, shake in her hand as she puts them in the bundle of purple and white and one red flower. her hands are shaking.
You end up clutching a bundle of color, you can’t really find a smell in it. It’s wrapped in tissue paper printed with cursive.
Walk down the street, and you should throw them away. You can’t throw them away. You should really. Your hands shake and she smiled and you can’t remember if you ever paid, she touched your hand while you paid and her name is Parja. Take the flowers home, call Charlotte and complain about the traffic and the weather and you’ll be there soon.


MONKEYBARS

Swing-Climb, Blisters, Dangerous

Pulling on her pigtails does not endear you to her, but she does know who you are because of it. Unfortunately she is under the impression that your name is Liverwurst-face because your mother makes you sandwiches from this pasty meat.
She has Golden blonde hair, blue eyes and occasionally colored band-aids on her knees.
The Band-Aids are a sure sign that she is not like the other girls, that she would build a fort with you, ninja about with tree branches and chase your large hairy dog Dumper around.
Eat the eraser off her pencil.
She’ll give your yo-yo a haircut.
At the library you both go to because your parents can't pick you up until four, photocopy worms and write ‘YOU’ with three arrows.
She pours glitter on your head and says look how pretty Liver-face is.
Kick her chair for forty-five minutes while you are learning capitals.
She won't say anything.
But in art class you catch a brushful of blue on your face.
Don't worry, this is how ten year olds flirt. You do physically what we adults do with words.
Be thankful for it.
On tuesday, skin your knees sliding into home in kickball. You, coincidentally are out by a mile and the catcher takes particular pleasure dopping you on the head with the kickball. Go to 'coach' Willits, with his clip-board, whistle and paunch, and ask if you can go see the nurse. This will be okay, sissy.
Instead of going to the nurse, go to the monkeybars, lay down and bury yourself in the tambark up to your neck. Wait ten minutes until recess.
She will come by eventually, with her friends. They are always on the Monkeybars. She will float on by, tiny swinging legs, and untied lace almost catches your nose, a fresh band-aid on her knee, she wears shorts, so you can't see her underthings, but her hair dazzles in the sun and bursts from her head like a firework and her short straining arms make perfect underhand strokes, carrying her, brilliant, bar to bar to bar.
Make a noise like a lion and grab her legs.
She will trill like a cartire.
She will drop from the bars and wriggle like a fish in your bear hug
She will scrunch up her face, lemoned up in fury and will punch you in the nose, her coin machine plastic ring will hurt a bit.
But-Don't tell me to shut up! You Shut up! I mean it.
Sit down and listen, it gets better.
Really.
Look. In a few hours, after school, in the library , between the books, in the shadows where no one can see. by the cellophaned hardbacks and mystery novels: she will corner you and kiss you on the nose and call you stupid.
Because she really liked that.
Stupid…