To Clayton, On Your Suicide
You have escaped the earth, ironically, by pounding yourself into it. I wonder how your body looked after falling forty-four stories from the top floor of the Marriott Hotel. Was it bizarrely mangled, like Beetle Bailey in the comic strips after Sarge wallops him? Or did you land on your feet and transform into a midget? You died, at least, with your trademark humor — grim and incautious. I will follow you, but I hope not soon, and not in the same manner. I hope to die at 90, in a large, well-made bed, surrounded by friends, grandchildren, children, wives, acolytes. My last act will be to free my slaves, and my last words will be: tre amor brevis fugit deus, which everyone will look up in the encyclopedia, and then remark, “How he improved upon Cicero!” But you died at 35, probably high on crack, heroin, and beer (will there be a coroner’s report?), and you didn’t even get a funeral. You believed the Apocalypse was coming — why didn’t you stay around and wait for it? It may really be coming. I woke last night with the horrible gathering fear that I, too, would kill myself. Shame on you, Clayton! Dying that way! A coward’s death. Alone. I say this because you loved such talk. You thought it was sexy. And it is. I love you, Clayton, or loved you, whichever you prefer, and I say that because you loved that kind of talk, too. You thought it was sexy. And it is.
A New Letter To Clayton
Clayton, Since you died, I have sensed your presence more vividly than I did during your life — perhaps because in life you were often stoned, and in death you have kicked drugs. Also, in life you lived uptown, on the corner of 50th Street and 8th Avenue, and now you live everywhere, and can float around in my mind. Part of the pain of your suicide is that it has blurred the line between life and death. I feel I have a friend in death the way I have a friend, for example, in the Philippines. And I feel I am going insane, because I hear you whispering to me. So I propose a collaboration: that we write a book together, sewing together death and life. I will receive all the money and fame, and you will receive precious contact with the earth. Is it a deal? Good. That’s settled. Love, Sparrow
Roach
I killed a cockroach, then I thought, “Maybe it was you, Clayton.” It looked like you, a bit — hesitant and sleek. And its shiny exoskeletal coat resembled the black leather jacket you usually wore. (Perhaps God rewards suicides with bug incarnations.) I’m sorry if it was you, Clayton. I didn’t think before I acted, though I mourned you briefly in the kitchen afterwards.
