Encouraging Suicide Note

noose for death

I’m hoping something good will come of my early exit. So it won’t have been a big waste.

I’m optimistic, but I’m also realistic. Jesus Christ died for all our sins yet we find increasingly perverse ways to thank him and his Father. He just wanted us to love each other. That’s the challenging part for us, right?

You could say “some things never change.”

Or do they?

Will they?

That’s up to you. If you’re reading this, you’re one of the people who can change the world.

You won’t let my death be in vain.

If you think I’ve done a good thing for our world, if I’ve left the home nest a little better than I found it, a little more secure for everyone else, then I shall depart this planet with a humble request.

Honor my memory by loving each other.

Honor my “sacrifice” by taking care . . . → Read More: Encouraging Suicide Note

Poem: Changeable

cute chamelon

Chameleons are cute

what with their changing colors and all that

adorableness ready-made for advertising campaigns

but when hunting they are less charming

more like their brutish brethren that merely slither

unblinking and expressionless

the toughest poker pedant to take

an oath

Hippocratic or otherwise

you would not find the same cute chameleon quite so cute

in a marketing cute kind of way

if you saw the lizard with a beetle in its mouth

not yet dead but vaguely aware that the insistent crushing pressure upon its abdomen

means among other less important things that this is the end

and please let it come soon and let the pain

this pain

this excruciating pain of jaws pinching into my middle

my guts and viscera starting to ooze

let it end

the three arms that aren’t trapped I flail about

summoning and being forsaken

in . . . → Read More: Poem: Changeable

Poem: Minor Miracles

it's all miraculous

Looking at the sun and hearing the yellowrumped warblers

I realized conclusively today that all of this

Everything is a miracle

All this Life

Please begin enumerating counting to 300 billion and perhaps

When you reach the end of your Time here

On yes this miracle of the galaxy

You will know the truth like birds know the tops of trees

And all the fighting and hurting over nothing made to seem like everything

Will cease and then disappear

When all of us minor miracles that comprise the larger miracle

Realize conclusively that we are One and

What we are is miraculous

Poem: How Can it Be?

a perplexed thinker

How can it be

You might wonder in a quiet moment set aside willfully to focus on will,

on what you will do and what you won’t and how it always is what you will it to be – yes,

during one of those appointments with your soul you might wonder

How can it be?

How can it be that I am simultaneously the most irrelevant and most important

creature in the entire galaxy, if not the universe and beyond?

How can it be that the assemblage of energy and chemicals and vibrations that I call Me

is of supreme importance when matters of personal convenience or comfort are at hand, yet

strangely invisible and uncounted when issues of piquantly more comprehensive concern are decided upon?


The universe is curved. Time has ended for some of the stars in our telescopes. We go on.

And . . . → Read More: Poem: How Can it Be?

Mr. Nobody

Mr. Nobody Poster

The 2009 science-fiction movie “Mr. Nobody” evaded our radar during its initial release. Now it’s on our very slim shelf of films “worth watching again.” Directed by Jaco van Dormael and starring a precociously talented Jared Leto, “Nobody” has a central story — a boy on a train platform who is made to choose between divorcing parents — and a clever conceit — Nemo Nobody is the last living mortal (120 years old) in a society of immortals. But this film’s intense pleasure is in visual, narrative, and philosophical digressions that miraculously lead back to the plot. It’s a work of magnificent imagination and virtuoso technique. “Mr. Nobody” recalls the Coen Brothers at their best.

In Memoriam

soldier funeral

Because Monday is the one day a year we set aside to remember our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, strangers and friends who have perished while serving our great country by killing other people’s brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, we figured we’d get the rest of our memorializing out of the way, big-box style. More convenient that way.

So, yes, we remember all the fallen soldiers who, along with their families, were bamboozled into thinking their death helped keep the rest of us “free.” They did indeed die on behalf of defending American values, like low gas prices and 24-hour streaming of our favorite TV shows. Thank you, and we’re sorry for all the lies you were told – like, you were a “hero.” But your bravery will certainly be remembered and appreciated while most of us take a day off from work and barbecue . . . → Read More: In Memoriam

Poem: On Watching a Bee Expire in the Garden

bee on the ground

Death and life are interchangeable,

inextricably entwined.

Without a brain there is no thinking,

no motoring of the mind.

Fret not about the end impending

when you suppose you’ll not be able


to kiss and laugh – oh, all the pleasures

almost justifies the pain.

Without a wound there is no succor,

unwelcome drought, cherished rain.

Call it fated, then call it luck, or

consign your dance to humble measures.


But dance you must. And singing! Loudly.

And loving oddly. And now

you see that when the playing concludes

what’s left is not about how

or when you tamed unbearable moods.

No. Embrace your death – and life – proudly.

Poem: Nostalgia

game players

If it’s not too early,

a bit premature for a fellow not quite ready,

I should like to look backward

on the imaginary continuum of then and now.

How marvelous it would be

to gaze beneficently

upon my childhood,


and maybe weeping softly

at all that’s been lost.


We called it the Court. Forty yards of hard-packed grass.

A giant elm was one goalpost, and a shorter piney thing was the other

and there was an asphalt ring around it

for racing and chasing

and we spent our childhoods there,

inventing games, skinning elbows, making friends, running away and running back

being boys

unable to imagine we would one day miss it all terribly,

as though it were dead,

as though it weren’t still there,

where it’s always been.

. . . → Read More: Poem: Nostalgia

Poem: Instead of Telling

What's Ahead

Let me show you my gift.

Telling has been discouraged.

If it hadn’t, I would be telling you that I can see into the future, years ahead.

Instead I shall show you my alleged gift, and I’ll hope, as I always do when I remember, that what I share will be useful to you.

I don’t know how that could be, but it’s worth imagining.

Ready steady, Freddy?

Good! It’s all good.

(That was my first subtle demonstration. The second is coming up next).

When you can dream with your eyes wide and the light pouring in and God everywhere –

and yet still however

the magic screen you possess, the one that’s like everyone else’s magic screen

in no way whatsoever – that one! — projects a storypoem

of startling clarity and prescience you’ll one day discover and confirm…

Then you’re me. Hello! Welcome. We’re seeing . . . → Read More: Poem: Instead of Telling

Poem: Scandal

oedipus painting

IN MEMORY OF EUGENE KONIK, born February 27, 1936. R.I.P.


And although I don’t share your candid misanthropy

I understand and I am sorry.

Father who left us all too soon

I understand and I am sorry.

Our species, the one you claimed to despise, having peered inside yourself and

all around the carousel, having seen dazzling cruelties

reckless greediness



worse than rodents – the worst we’re capable of inflicting on ourselves and

those we claim to adore

like they were our firstborn son, the one that will always be first, the first in the family

to go to college

and see the Loire Valley

and lose a wife.

Father who left us all too soon

I understand and I am sorry.

This morning, walking into the sunrise, something you liked to do —

now I like to do, yippee! hurrah! yahoo!

to be . . . → Read More: Poem: Scandal