On the death of Hunter S. Thompson: A realization in three parts…

1.
I am pissed at you Hunter S. Thompson.
I am royally pissed off at you.
I am so totally pissed off at you.
First of all, let me say that
I am not pissed off because you did it.
I am not pissed off because of some
it-is-never-so-bad-that-you-should-end-it-all
cliche speak, occasionally,
it is that bad and worse.
I am not pissed off because you had so much
on the ball, you were the voice and the conscience
of American dissent and you threw it out the window like
a fragmentation grenade merely for the sake of
hearing the BOOM.
I am not pissed off because I will never get
to read another dispatch from the edge of
sanity, Las Vegas, Colorado and beyond. The
T shelf in the spare room already groans.
I am not pissed off because part of America’s
rebellious spirit blew itself away on
a Sunday in February.
I am not pissed off because there will be
wagging fingers and choruses of tsk tsk.
I am not pissed because I will never get to
shake your hand or say,
“I really like your stuff man.”
I am not pissed off because your suicide is
indicative of the failure of the
politics, drugs and free love dreams of the 1960s.
I am not pissed off for any of these reasons,
some of these reasons are valid,
others are invalid pap various talking heads will
toss into the electronic wind as if it
were golden intellect or perfect insight.

I am pissed off…because of all the
terrible, overwrought, sentimental bullshit
“O Gonzo…We Hardly Knew Thee” poetry, prose
and TV speak
that your death will and has inspired.

Hack scribes, poetasters and poseurs everywhere,
licked their lips, unlimbered their pens and stirred
immense pots of hackneyed expression broth with
cliche noodles when the news broke.

Jesus Christ Hunter,
you have given lease to
the same bastards that
could barely wait until
the towers fell to
pen horrid, self serving,
I-am-so-terribly-wounded-by-this-day
I-feel-the-pain-of-the-victims
I-commiserate-with-all-humanity’s-suffering
opuses, epics and tomes.

For fuck’s sake Hunter!
If you did not want to save yourself,
if the pain and madness seemed beyond chemical management,
you could have bucked up to save the rest
of us from this avalanche of facade and
feigned interest and died quietly in your sleep
with strained peas on your forgotten chin.

I am pissed off at you
Hunter Stockton Thompson.

Save me a seat in hell so I can shake your
hand and say, “I really liked your stuff man,”
you selfish bastard.

2.
Upon further review…I have reversed my ruling on this matter,
I have decided to let the poseurs and poetasters have you and have at you Hunter.
What kind of man blows himself away as his wife waits and listens on the phone?
What kind of man swallows .45 caliber lead with his son and grandson sitting upstairs?
What kind of man spreads his madness thick like marmalade on his life’s innocent bystanders?
Jesus Fucking Christ. I hope you and the poseur posse are happy together.
You deserve one another. A match made in fucking Cleveland. Fare thee well motherfucker.

3.
Well children, I guess the only thing that can be said now is
that we should choose our heroes more carefully.

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