shepard fairey








gustav dore

our boys

death and burial


Wednesday, July 30, 2008


to his family:

I expected to be talking to you, probably this weekend, but Brion’s email had your email addresses, so I don’t want to wait. It took me almost a week for this to really begin to sink in. Since then I’ve been flooded with images of William as the extraordinarily happy person he naturally was (and wanted everyone else to be as well), and with remembrances of how he exceeded every known limit when it came to gonzo style, outrageous never-before-existent humor, and, most of all, in his all-embracing love for people.

When I came to QH, I was 21: Wm. was 14. He was more man than 5 of me at the time. I eventually cut that by advancement (in my mind) to a 2 or a 1.5 maybe (maybe), but no one could ever exceed, resist, deny, or keep up with him. He always looked after me (with a sharp eye on my utility, of course, but still . . .) and I owe my one decade of solvency this lifetime directly to that nurturing.

William was so overwhelming he seemed dangerous. I often felt, I think, that it would be better to avoid him, so easy would it be to be swept away by the strength of his intention. But there was no avoiding him. And that’s been my good fortune; it’s added dimension, substance, and excitement to my own life just being around him. None of us will ever forget him.

Many of us, when we’ve gone, will, like William, leave the powerful and enduring legacy of our children, and their children’s children, for all time to come. Let us not forget that cardinal reality. But William, like LB, Irv and Barb, and yourselves, have also formed the core of a family (unlike any in all time) that took us in when we were uprooted, fed us, clothed us, opened our exceedingly provincial (if willing) minds, and grew right beside us--with us--as we multiplied, over a stretch of paradisiacal years we thought could never end.

Now, here we stand, roots severed once again, a full third perhaps of life remaining--or not. How quick the end can come. To any. And none can lay claim to breath by their own rights or abilities. We stand perhaps because we’ve not yet given full measure. William did. Every damn day. He was my friend, the leader this good soldier needed, and always a fount of a fun that charted the outrageous deep into the beyond.

Let us remember that it is given to some to assault the known world’s limits with an originality never seen before. This was such a man. And his energy, verve, and compassion will always inhabit our memories, vivid they be as our dreams. But this really happened. Here was our life lived, all outside the known. And here was our leader, our protector, our friend. Thank you all, for all the same, and for being his family. It does go on. And is not to be forgotten. Ever. Love you . . .


Monday, July 7, 2008

Lost Crisis Theater Calling

just to check in; I wanted to say
that this wasn’t what I was expecting;
not the quiff off the quim, the veriest, not
the one told enwombed, not the shelliest parade
for the stage; not the milk-boned, nor the putty-minded,
neither held him sway. His obliquitards alone
set myths to Sysphistean tears. Her need turned
his mind to jelly.

I’ll Publish Any Swill

I can come up with,
mostly; I been around the horn
ensqualled. And was there man who
d’in look ill on is kin during the poison?

If so, send him round, we’ll cure his fuzz
slapped on backs of charging rhinoceri,
In case you’re thinking Dr. Seuss dropped by,
think again.

Having Said That

I should speak in favor of my judicial mien, may it serve me
in court. I failed to file an answer to Citigroup’s up-close and local
barristers; now we’ll sight its machine, going under. O well, as I’ve
said before, those shitheads are their own reward.

Not to be uncharitable, however, I can say with an utterly unchallenged
conviction, these people suck! Anyway, my scene is cream-where-found,
and any the sea throws back in our faces. The shaleen that brought
the Navy down, was a local lass already famed for her name.

And did they bring the gibbet down on our aging necks and
our heads rolled down the Thruway, which was no longer closed,
choked in traffic and smoke, a faint guitar sound whipping up in the wind.

I’ve Been Shitting

on the high wire, too far gone for one to see,
lately, my fantasy life’s
bit into chains. Le Ordre d’Compose ain’t calling.

Well, I never wanted to set it out before which. I’m a flexible man
in a storm. Give me the unexpected, these horrors
won’t do. Which where I’ve got nowhere yet over in over

sixty years; and that life was the cream. I mean
the mental life; the one says you feel this, now here’s this,
now you feel that. And I do, I’m sorry to say

I’m a worthless, crawling motherfucker.