Jack was an 18 year old poet from NYC, who I met in a Parisian dorm room a few days before Christmas, 2014. 
I wrote to Jack some time later and he replied with this poem.

to the Person living inside my mind

exhaled parade, inverted bullets of smoke
Buttered target drilled with indian raindrops
evaporate ego to a gasoline of bliss
phantasmic ache of glowing ego- 
shade
drawn from
de-basketed breeze
of feathery automatons
pouring genuine shadow along
wing-wombed canvas stone
elastic fibers of pathological limelight retroactive dock,
to the person living inside my mind,
juggling siamese psychedelia of polarized anchors, 
conspiring breath in narrow metaphor of self
draped in ash
burnt from hood of memories silence
dangling bolted rain of zenith-borne costumes,
melt thru solid vacancy
grate dice on
intuitive blade
of laughing friction and
scatter into lake of
self-treading recollections...
the medicinal fisherman's
subliminal
hands of death
schizophrenic paint's starved
wildfire
of insolvent echoes
strategically melt
on psychic shell of toothless night

Jack Gustafsson