Someone posted this poem on their blog and then took it down, so I thought I'd put it up here:

Mr. Vonnegut, Mr. Cho

There is a time when the difference between
a loved one being alive and being dead
is that you haven't heard it yet.

The news leaves the radio or the phone
still just waves in the ocean
gathering force
before it hits the beach
to cause Lilliputians to react
with gymnastics.

During this interim time your loved one,
she is Schrödinger’s Cat.
The great hand of some eternal bureaucrat
is pointing his stamp at the death certificate.
The hand is still in motion.
The missile has gone ballistic.
The pendulum only got one period.

Mr. Vonnegut, Mr. Cho
died in the month of April.
It reminds me of something
Burt Russell once said:
Creation, destruction are equally tonic
unto the hearts of man.
But creation should be preferred
if just for logistical reasons.

But still the sleeve of death looms

Like Michael Jordan frozen, apoplectic,

And in the bleachers lightbulbs, shots
ring out
like fireflies erupting out
into the syrup of space-time.

Nicholas Moore (2007)


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