Damn the Torpedoes (For Tom Petty)

On the day of the (enter current sad bloody state of affairs here),

I watched the morning news to the point I couldn't take it anymore,

then watched a little more, then returned to the thing I was doing

to forget (enter the previous day's sad bloody state of affairs here).

Then, having escaped by hiding, we went out for lunch, ate sushi.

O sure, there were two moments when I had to leave the restaurant

because I couldn't stop saying "fucking Jesus" out loud,

in need of my indoor voice, so I restored order by smoking violently.

Then we went shopping, buying things at the pawn shop we couldn't afford.

Must be the commandment of the current commandant Lord is, "Be grateful! Shop!

Be thankful I did not kill you yesterday. Be thankful for the traffic lights

still working. For the buses still running. Be grateful for my Machiavellian cunning."

Next, while you were sending me teasing text messages about the death of Tom Petty,

I was skipping down the dead dry creek bed, avoiding your arrival, living my carnival,

shape-shifting into one white shirt, then orange, then black, then into my escape hatch,

only to find, when I returned, your crime of indifference was much worse than mine for caring.

That was followed by getting on a bicycle for the first time in two years, shaking my fears,

and only occasionally breaking down into tears to see the airplanes fly by the dock of the moon,

to marvel at dialed-in people doing dialed-in things,

moving quicksilver as roadies for the Heartbreakers.

By the time I got home, I was Okay with (enter current sad state of bloody affairs here).

Even managed to do that one thing I promised myself to do: Listen to "Damn the Torpedoes."

Then went to bed, slept like a baby, waking to make all of the mad silly jokes I could

after that last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain, caused by ...

(Enter yesterday's sad bloody state of affairs here)