Dropped Like Glass Joe...

There's something violently beautiful about those who can't get over something. Maybe more if it's for a *someone*. Almost everybody can and does. We're designed to. Even the stuff you don't walk away from, after a while it just feels like graffiti on your heart. You get used to it. Mostly our impact amounts to a minor crater or gentle speed bump in the lives we touch. Another rotten deal is how lots of us operate as unpaid publicity departments for the people coming down the pike towards those we care about. Our baggage and childhood files come off like the sucker punch to our whole lives. But suicide is special for one big fat reason that separates it from every other decision anyone ever makes. It's the biggest decision you can make that's impossible to regret. Provided it pans out, it's no tag-backs. Everybody whose left behind is, to various degrees of gray, IT. This David Foster Wallace suicide bummed me out. A lot less than Hunter S. Thompson's suicide a few years ago, but still. It sucks. Not because I liked him---I didn't---but because I had to go and cram a thousand pages of him over the week following his suicide on account of not having had my FILL of nursing my grudge just yet. Even worse, after five pages I liked him. A few more pages and it got much worse---I missed him. I guess I wasn't pissed off at him in the first place. Just what he represented. It gave me the willies. Mariah Careys in music, or with words, can nail every expensive note and octave they want and drive plastic extinct with all the records they sell---I'll still be pining for Billie Holiday and how her voice cracks sometimes and forgives me for everything wrong I've ever done to anybody or tucks me in at night when it goes a little off-key. Everybody gets more flowers when they're dead than when they're alive these days. When that happen? My best friend's leaving town pretty soon, probably for a couple years. Kinda leaves anything else I could say about it one long stutter. Art school in Germany is swiping my emotional nightlight. Why'dja have to tie me those tracks with that nasty train pawing its way toward me? Sorta funny, I was looking at this photo somebody else took of my girl. Few thousand miles between us, I spend an awful lot of my time thinking about that face of hers. It's my favorite face because its calling card is chipping off some new piece of me every time I see it. But here was that face in a photo, obviously taken by somebody who loved her. Who has dibs? I dunno. I know she's staring into the camera but I have no idea what she's looking at. Her expression doesn't give it away. Likewise with her beauty, it just sorta says, "Relax, this won't hurt..." And Brinny gets dropped in the first round like Glass Joe each and every time.