Saturday, February 3, 2018

Very sad news, she wrote

And you know what she was talking about b/c you knew the story. On Facebook, I wrote this poem


While my philodendron and jade plant
and the leaping Madagascar Dragon Tree
thrive on my window sill

A good man is dead. Thirty-one. The
cops found him. His picture and that
of his family hang in my upstairs
office, along with my deceased friend

Are they alive on some distant star?
Or have their substances dissolved,
sprinkled like the summer sands
about us.

Our young man was bewitched.
A budding Tristan whose Isolde
fed him an elixir that killed
him slowly over a year.

Rest easy, young man. Your suffering
is over, as your mother's is
just beginning. God, in his mercy,
will hold her tight, as she relives
his entire life that led up to this
sorry end. 

Sound the trumpet! cries Henry Purcell.
Victory shall abound one day.


She and her boyfriend will drive to Framingham MA to attend the funeral. Imagine, your son dies and you have to drive to anudder state at attend the funeral. And then go through his things.


Life gallops on. Compartmentalization.

The Superbowl is tomorrow, Sunday.

My daughter/law is freaking out b/c their TV doesn't have good reception for the Superbowl.  NBC, they tell me. Hmm, what would I do if I wanted to watch it. Go to Scott's as he had great reception on his upstairs TV.

Lemme peak out the front door and see if the sun is coming out. It's as dark as a witch's hat dans le living.

Teeny tiny amount of light. Not much. Lemme scurry back in bed.

Live life, learn as much as you can, and be a good person.


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