But–of course–it always does.
This has been a hell of a week. First there was all the fallout from Hurricane Helene, some of which has gravely affected those I love.
Followed by the death of Maggie Smith.
And now, that of Kris Kristofferson.
The last is one of the very few great American poets of the twentieth century:
See him wasted on the sidewalk in his jacket and his jeansWearin’ yesterday’s misfortunes like a smileOnce he had a future full of money love and dreamsWhich he spent like they was going out of styleAnd he keeps right on a changin’ for the better or the worseAnd searchin’ for a shrine he’s never foundNever knowin’ if believin’ is a blessin’ or a curseOr if the going up is worth to coming down
He’s a poet he’s a picker he’s a prophet he’s a pusherHe’s a pilgrim and a preacher and a problem when he’s stonedHe’s a walking contradiction partly truth and partly fictionTaking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home
He has tasted good and evil in your bedrooms and your barsAnd he’s traded in tomorrow for todayRunnin’ from his devils Lord and reachin’ for the starsAnd losin’ all he loved along the wayBut if this world keeps right on turning for the better or the worseAll he ever gets is older and aroundFrom the rocking of the cradle to the rolling of the hearseThe going up was worth the coming down
He’s a poet he’s a picker…
There’s lotta wrong directions on that lonely way back home
Boy, howdy.
Rest in Peace
