Watching CNN’s and the Travel Channel’s tributes,
Anthony’s privileged life, great hair,
ring in his ear and his desert boots
didn’t amount to so much as a hoot
in giving him reason to live.
What was his motive?
Who knows what demons lurk in the
heart of a profoundly sad man?
He seemed resolute in his plan.
It is so bizarre watching a ghost on air.
The stations want you to sit and stare.
He strung himself up by a classy bathrobe belt.
As he left this life quietly, he never yelled.
Still it could be said he went out in style.
Anthony, where is that irrepressible smile?
I don’t mean to be mean
but this one thing has to be seen.
Right now I’m angry at you, Bourdain.
But, still, I don’t hold you in disdain.
My dad did the same —
before there were all these aids
to help save
and give a sad soul something about which
to be brave.
his life to save;
He was a poor, immigrant kid,
couldn’t speak English;
orphaned as a young teen;
what fear he must have felt;
what nightmarish dreams;
foster home after foster home;
Scandinavian shame —
eventually he looked at himself to blame.
Bad health, couldn’t work
everything dearth.
He didn’t leave a note either
but I became a believer
in his suicide.
Except in death, he had nowhere to hide.
At you Anthony I want to be mad
in a way I couldn’t be at my dad.
For me and my dad
I was, am and always will be…so sad.
Maybe I’m projecting on you, Anthony,
some unrecognized anger at my dad.
Therapy helped answer that
and for that I’m glad.
Now, after getting this out,
for you Anthony, your friends, your loved ones,
your TV fans,
I’m just feeling really, really benauwd,
as the Dutch say, so, so very suffocatingly sad.

So, now we come to find out that the
richest guy in the world, the one
who owns a true, truth-telling news-
paper, basically underpays and over-
works the Chinese who work for him
making the stuff we buy in droves
from his on-line mega-warehouse
business, the one that has made him
the richest guy in the world. So, now
if we boycott, what do we do about
getting all the great stuff delivered
quickly to our door without cost of
postage if we buy enough stuff at one
time? Oh….

Someone asked if the literal biblical truth I see;
I told her, “It’s all metaphorical to me.”
She squinted, furrowed her brow and said,
“When Jesus comes back, you’ll see.”
“Maybe…. We’ll just have to wait and see.
It was nice meeting, thee.”
“Are you a Quaker?”
No, they used to call me a Shaker,
but I’m too old to shake it up, baby,
so I’ll just sit and wait for my maker,
metaphorically speaking, if you please.”

You can dress it up in poetry;
you can put lots of lipstick on it.
It’s still debauchery
any which way you call it.

Many paid a steep price for their
idealism — seeking to sizzle
— an alternative route.
Sorry, like the Fourth of July —
rocket shots, then the fizzle
and then just burned out.

The wise put their excesses on hold
and lived to tell of the story
in poetry told and passion bold —
we’re the beneficiaries of that glory.

A neighbor walked by, a raincoat on his little dog. I thought
about inviting him and the dog out of the rain for a reading
of Howl — facetious, something I was doing for the first time
in a long time, having been scandalized reading parts ages ago
maybe as a wannabee hippie in my senior year at a conservative
college, where, at least, we marched for Civil Rights but had
to go out-of-town across state to the University of Michigan
to protest Viet Nam. I did that with a guy who turned out to
be a disciple of the Crystal Cathedral now-defunct gospel and
who, in retirement, went to a middle-eastern country to preach
the not-yet-quite defunct gospel and got to do a few You-tubes
for posterity before he died. Where have all the flowers gone?
I’m reading Ginsberg in his howling eternal entirety while I’m
sipping really good, homemade soup I call Stone Soup because,
well, you’ve read the children’s book. I just keep adding great
stuff and the soup goes on and on and on in many manifestations
kinda like a Biblical miracle. To read Howl, I think I just
should be stoned, but I’m not sure what that is or how to get
there let alone get back. See, I’m just a faux-hippie from a
conservative college.

What with all the seemingly saturated
media coverage of suicide because of

that of two celebrities, if memory serves
the man right, Studs in Working inter-

viewed a black woman who spoke
of the Great Depression and the

difference between white men and
black men. When white men could no

longer afford to bring home steak
they threw themselves out of sky-

scraper windows. Black men just
kept bringing home the hotdogs.

Thirteen gold-fish several of whom look like koi after ten years 
     in the pond under all kinds of conditions perhaps the result of 
breeding in secret behind the cattail plant swim swimmingly in 
     clear water since the pond was overhauled; they see me on the 
balcony and swim to the end of the pond near the balcony. They 
     are hoping for something to eat. A couple of times during the 
week, a large flock of Cedar Waxwings dove into the upper pond 
     to bathe and then flew into the upper branches of the red pines 
in the pine grove and back down again several times before flying 
     away. Backyard summer birds flock to the two feeders now that the 
food is secured from the squirrels because of axle grease on the 
     frames. They seem to be completely unaware of what is going on 
in politics as the country confronts the intrusion of seeds of 
     fascism not to mention the very sad suicides of two celebrities. 
Are the birds and the fish (without bees although they are crucial 
     to the health of the ecosystem) onto something or am I simply
jealous of their focus?

Two large stars impaled themselves on Orion’s sword 
and then fell from the sky. 
They left little stars in their wake, baby stars that 
will ask themselves for 
the rest of their celestial life why and they won’t 
get a single, truthful answer. 
That is what happens when stars, even if they are 
only big stars to the little, 
baby stars impale themselves on Orion’s sword. One 
of the big stars used to sing to the baby star:
	Stars are the windows of heaven where 
	angels peep through.
	Up in the sky they keep an eye
	On kids like me and you.
	They cry each time we are naughty;
	Their teardrops are the rain.
	But when we're good they are smiling
	And they shine again.
	Stars are the windows of heaven where 
	angels peep through.
And then that big star impaled himself on Orion’s sword 
and every time the baby 
star hears Stars Are The Windows of Heaven, that 
little star cries and wonders, “Why, oh, why?”

Anthony Bourdain
took his own life —
what a damn shame.

I loved having dinner
with him — a good stew
and a spot of bourbon or two

or three
while watching him
on TV.

He was so cordial
at the table —
a great host
funny and able.

Why didn’t he just slip
along time’s line?
Together we could have a sip
of fine wine.

Anthony Bourdain
took his own life —
what a damn shame.