JD Salinger died yesterday, and I don’t have the right words for it. Not much I feel I can say about that besides goodbye.
I’ve never really listened to Nirvana or bought into the Cobain mania, but today whilst browsing for Nerudo in the large library downtown I found his journals misplaced in the poetry section. There was time to kill so I started to read, and then took them out and read almost all of them on the train home. They’re sitting in my lap now. He’s this crazy whiny funny smart narcissist, and I really like him. A lot. I’ll have to give Nirvana more of a go now, though I feel a bit like I’m doing this backwards.
This week, there’s another miracle in the tabloids.
It’s something folks call the Roadkill Jesus Christ. The tabbloids call him “The I-84 Messiah”. Some guy who stops along the highway, wherever there’s a dead animal, he lays his hands on it, and Amen. The ragged cat or crushed dog, even a deer folded in half by a tractor-trailer, they gasp and sniff the air. They stand on their broken legs and blink their bird-pecked eyes.
Folks have this on video. They have snapshots posted on the internet.
The cat or porcupine or coyote, it’ll stand there another minute, the Roadkill Christ cradling its head in his arms, whispering to it.
Two minutes after it was shredded fur and bones, a meal for magpies and crows, the deer or dog or raccoon will run away complete, restored, perfect.
I’m pretty sure that if you weren’t gay we’d be married by now.