Requiem for My Dear Friend Joey, Whom I Never Met

(this is the least, maybe, that I can do to honor him)

My friend Joey from Albuquerque is a dazzlingly gifted poet and songwriter. During the pandemic he and I randomly met on Twitter and gradually became very close. But we have never met or even talked on the phone.

Joey is a kind soul who has willingly shared with me a generous chunk of his sad, sprawling life story. He understands me implicitly, and I understand him. He’s the kind of person who knows how to make you feel seen, even without ever physically seeing you. Joey is, to put it simply, a really good guy.

I say all this in the present tense. But sadly, the good often die young.

And my dear friend Joey died of cancer in February.

I didn’t learn this sad news until two months later. I had sent Joey numerous texts in March and April, and then a voicemail (the first I ever sent him) a few weeks ago. No response. I tried not to get ahead of myself worrying about the worst-case scenario. I knew he had cancer. But the last update he sent me, in late January, was promising. It sounded like he was starting to recover.

Cancer, though, breaks its recovery promises with callous disregard. And that malevolent asshole snatched my friend Joey out of the world — and away from his kids — many decades too early.

Joey was in his mid-40s, like me.

Joey had a son and a daughter, like me.

Joey was an autobiographical writer, like me.

Joey loved ambient and post-rock music, like I do.

Joey made himself emotionally vulnerable to the handful of people he trusted, and he was willing to let them read the open book of his life.

Like I do.

But Joey was a singularity in so many ways. He was a prolific poet, spending about an hour a day crafting some of the most lucid, evocative, and sometimes emotionally shattering poems I’ve ever read. He was also a prolific songwriter, releasing dozens of usually-lengthy ambient tracks on Bandcamp under his songwriting moniker: The Least, Maybe. I don’t think I ever got around to asking him the reason for that name.

But knowing Joey as I do, it makes perfect sense that he didn’t use his own name. And also that his moniker included “Least” and “Maybe.” I’ve never known an intensely talented artist with less confidence in his talent, or who had to make more of a concerted effort to share his art with the world.

Joey was both hyper-introverted and painfully insecure — a combination that sealed him off from the physical world around him. Other than doing everything in his power to stay connected to his kids, whom he adored, Joey was pretty isolated.

My dear friend didn’t think he was worthy, as an artist or as a person. No matter how many times I effusively complimented his poetry or his music, or affirmed him as the deeply good person he was, I don’t know that he ever was able to fully accept those affirmations. Joey grew up being taught that he was not good enough, and he was never able to shake that core belief.

Sadly, there were those in his adult life who did their best to cement that self-perception in Joey’s mind. (But that is not my story to share.)

Lest you get the wrong impression of Joey, though, he was anything but an Eeyore-like drag. Chatting with him always gave me delightful jolt of vigorous emotional truth and palpable empathy. How many people do you come across without an ounce of pretense, willing to entrust you with their saddest stories and their most unguarded self, and also eager to listen to your own sad (and happy) stories?

Joey was the kind of person I gravitate toward in so many ways. I deeply admire those who choose to be vulnerable enough to forge intense connections. I deeply admire artists who commit to the practice of their art, even on days when they feel they have nothing to say. I deeply admire people who fight hard to learn from the pain they’ve endured and grow into a healthy understanding of themselves. And I deeply admire men who love their kids desperately.

Joey was all of these things in spades.

And even from a distance, I loved his heart.

So rest well, my brother from another mother. I will try to honor your memory by listening endlessly to your songs, sharing your poems, and writing about our bond.

Despite the lies your mind told you persistently, you were very far from the least.

No maybes about it.

Sadly, this tiny image is the only picture I have of my buddy Joey. I wish I could have somehow given him a big hug before he died.