My father died this past week a few days after he had my mother call. We talked, laughed & generally ignored death. We knew each other well. Kind of like you see a friend walking by – you don’t go “What you doing, walking?” Fuck no. You walk. So we talked of my mother, how she adores him and of him falling. Strange how it all works out. So my sister called Monday. It hit me yesterday. Today it’s a heavy mist outside. No one on yard. Just me & some wet seagulls, sound of traffic & nearly 2 ½ years of this bullshit. Last night my chest tightened & I so wanted to smash something. Luckily I just listened to the radio. Real love & then went to walk. Somehow, amazingly, no idiots approached. I’ve been spending a lot of time beading & craft crap. I need to write so I’m wrestling with a moderate length poem. Kind of titled Phil Spector Can’t/Wear Wigs/In Prison. A summary of this. The restraint – the death – the love – the wander – on the outs Dave says/questions “Are you just going to walk around the block for hours ‘til someone calls you in?” Probably. If society considers prison such a horrid thing & you survived (seemly), a shattered heart the only casualty - You/I develop a real grasp on this reality called existence. Yes, this is a cake walk compared to CA or NY or other prisons. But if my father didn’t love me as much as he did to call me. Imagine.