I sat down and wrote a poem of Hunter Thompson, the father figure I chose instead of the real, and truly disappointing, father I had; and I can truly say that Hunter has been an exceptional father figure to me, even in death.

The Pure Man Surrounded With Peacocks (For H.S.Thompson)

by Holly Blue

This world has another shadow,

Another dead hero,

There are only echoes left 

Circling and circling round

In Aspen,

Yelling for more Chivas,

More Wild Turkey,

More anything and everything.

If you listen closely enough

You can hear some Dylan in the distance;

If you have the right kind of eyes,

You can see the flare of a match ignite 

Cigarette smoke exploding into time.

Not every one is a saint,

Not enough sinners to take their place.

Ring after ring of silver,

Nothing shines

Just as he did.

The lids click open, then look.

The red hit the roses and

Then everything fell

Away as he struck the keys,

Straight backed as a concert pianist

Or a yogi in a trance,

Afraid of moving lest the jolt

Make the art suffer.

Come hell, high water, fire

Faith;

No one is safe as he laughs 

"I'm a firm believer in the 

Ashes to ashes,

Dust to dust

Concept."

The walls once white,

Now reddened with a life that

No one wanted to take.

He now dancing on a pinhead 

And reading Fitzgerald,

Out of his head as he ever was

In the line between savageness and grace,

Still laughing and seeing too much

Reality,

Even resting in paradise he shall be moved to howl.

With the right kind of mind you can look out 

To the hills, watch him able off twisted

In his multicolored jacket.

Spot the red shark in the far distance,

That's life.

~ February 20, 2009