Document for Dennis Gonzalez

Hard to say goodbye, my brother.

Listening to your family talk, I heard that 
you learned to read at four (you once told me that story),
graduated high school at 16 and college at 20.
Seems you couldn't wait to get started with your life.

You were your own guy the whole way up.
Made your mark on the world from a house on Clinton Avenue in Oak Cliff.
Your achievements command respect.
Was there a price you paid for swimming against the tide?

How do you show the people you love that you love them?
By welcoming them into your home.
By nurturing them with food.
By making them laugh.
By letting them see themselves the way that you do.

Sitting at your table once, I heard to story of the time in Eastern Europe (was it Slovenia?)
when you wanted to run onstage and be exciting
but the cloud of cigarette smoke in the room made you choke and cough
every time you tried to play your horn.
(You were secure enough to make yourself sound ridiculous.)

The time you and Jeff and I went to see King Crimson in Fair Park -- 
afterward, the sidewalk outside the venue was like a living social media comment section.
You alone said, "Why compare what's onstage with something in the past?
Why not just enjoy what they're giving you?"

When you were on the set, people felt less entitled to treat each other badly.

And now I guess I won't get to hear your Charles Brackeen story.

Go be part of the Universe for awhile.

We'll try and use the things you taught us.