Forgot just why I wrote this "So long, Spalding Grey"
thought's of death do pass through my mind these days
Found the poem again today, so here it is for your uh...not enjoyment, maybe,
but should you need a bit of thanatopsis, here is some.
"So long, Spalding Grey"
Finally, on a wintry night in 2004, he disappeared. Two months later his body was found
on a New York City shoreline, the assumption being that he had jumped to his death
from the Staten Island Ferry.
Where will you spend two months like that In that busy fouled harbor?
In and out?
Up and down?
Busy New Yorkers, going about their business
And so not noticing
Spalding's gone away
Gone but not away
Gone, just not located let us say
It would be cold
Helpful to your travels
Not to let you gas up and rise
and be found and decently disposed of
Would you not be afraid
Must have been a bit for a few moments
The transition
from Air Breather to Not Breather
Warm blooded to cold
to very cold
Or not? If you cannot feel and there is no contrast
No cold or hot or anything
No feeling if some fishies
Happy for a winter snack
had a nibble here and there
No worries Help yourself
I'll not be needing it- whatever it gets bit
any more
Would there be some sense,
if not our standard five still working
of being somewhere
amazing, new, exotic
even if it had been there all along
where he had been all along there
just cannot know
might wish
suppose, propose
some similar experience to what we
scuba-suited murkily might
under
go...
Meager, mean, menial, mini
maybe
What happens about the glowing light and relatives
His Mom? "Hello dear! How was Texas?"
They would have lunch- catch up
Oh of course it could be
Just that briefest
heart stopping- really
fear Then quiet
peace still gone
And the rest is only floating
meat
which, thankfully,
feels not
Good night sweet prince
and bands of angels
or fishies
and those funny little tug boats
and whatever all else
guided you those two months
until
Is it like television?
Someone sees or smells and tells
and whosever job it is
comes scoops you up
what's left
works you up
calls the family
and then the Press
And what seemed dark and lonely and cold....
Huh!
Picnic!
Found the poem again today, so here it is for your uh...not enjoyment, maybe,
but should you need a bit of thanatopsis, here is some.
"So long, Spalding Grey"
Finally, on a wintry night in 2004, he disappeared. Two months later his body was found
on a New York City shoreline, the assumption being that he had jumped to his death
from the Staten Island Ferry.
Where will you spend two months like that In that busy fouled harbor?
In and out?
Up and down?
Busy New Yorkers, going about their business
And so not noticing
Spalding's gone away
Gone but not away
Gone, just not located let us say
It would be cold
Helpful to your travels
Not to let you gas up and rise
and be found and decently disposed of
Would you not be afraid
Must have been a bit for a few moments
The transition
from Air Breather to Not Breather
Warm blooded to cold
to very cold
Or not? If you cannot feel and there is no contrast
No cold or hot or anything
No feeling if some fishies
Happy for a winter snack
had a nibble here and there
No worries Help yourself
I'll not be needing it- whatever it gets bit
any more
Would there be some sense,
if not our standard five still working
of being somewhere
amazing, new, exotic
even if it had been there all along
where he had been all along there
just cannot know
might wish
suppose, propose
some similar experience to what we
scuba-suited murkily might
under
go...
Meager, mean, menial, mini
maybe
What happens about the glowing light and relatives
His Mom? "Hello dear! How was Texas?"
They would have lunch- catch up
Oh of course it could be
Just that briefest
heart stopping- really
fear Then quiet
peace still gone
And the rest is only floating
meat
which, thankfully,
feels not
Good night sweet prince
and bands of angels
or fishies
and those funny little tug boats
and whatever all else
guided you those two months
until
Is it like television?
Someone sees or smells and tells
and whosever job it is
comes scoops you up
what's left
works you up
calls the family
and then the Press
And what seemed dark and lonely and cold....
Huh!
Picnic!