They had a memorial for a dear old friend, Dr. Cyd, this past Friday night in Boulder. He had a problem with drinking, was 67, and had "health issues". He went outside to have a cigarette, passed out, and froze to death.
His passion was making sculpture out of found objects. Boulder has some very valuable trash. I actually knew at least four people that made a living picking trash out of dumpsters and selling it at yard sales. Cyd "dumpstered" for stuff to make beautiful pieces. I LOVED his taste and style as an artist.
I wrote this poem on Thursday, and later that night I came home and had a very charming acCYDent.
I had the poem laying on my computer keyboard. I was hanging out with a friend and we were WAY high on pot chocolate. I wound up spilling my Corona directly onto the keyboard of my computer, so quick snatched the bottle and set it down, and AGAIN it fell, pouring beer all over my computer.
So I quick unplugged the thing, and held it upside down wondering what to do. I grabbed a towel and flipped the computer over to at least wipe off what was on the surface, only to realize that there was no spill on the keyboard, only on the computer body. Cyd's poem save it.
I was so grateful.
Later I found it charming that his poem drank up the beer, leaving the stained paper as a sort of trashed art.
For that reason, and others, I call this poem BEER BATTERED.
(composed a week before the inauguration of an american disgrace)
The Good Doctor Cyd
dead and gone
get out of the theater
before the shit show begins
Who am I kidding
the good soul who saw beauty in trash
probably ducked out to get a quick incarnation
and get back when the piles are everywhere
Walmart meets Syria
Right about when people are tired of the wars
right about when the world is ready to exhale
and start over
in a fresh wind of inspiration
you will be there
a gleaming eyed teenager
whistling a tune
When The Saints Come Marching In
making masterpieces of trash
for the healing, Good Doctor
for the healing