Spalding Grey

Spalding Grey

Balding, or grey.

Not no more.

That’s not very nice.

I apologize.

How can a man who makes froths

at the mouth telling a story

end up suicide?

What frailty this network of synapses.

What strength, what endurance,

but what, ultimately, frailty, what little

we can do when frailty calls the shots.

Laughable the pills, the books, the shrinks, the drinks, the drugs, the Robin Williams hugs.

What frailty.

We cannot end war.

Stop marching.

We cannot end death.

Stop trying so hard. But you already know that. Because what makes you you is ignoring sentiments like these.

What frailty.

When the only thing that keeps your

life in balance are Post-It notes

with doctor-scrawled to-do’s.

What frailty.

Will you march against dust?

Will you march against rust?

Will you march against sand?

Will you march against bland?

Some day it will come out that

George W. Bush was shtupping Anna Nicole Smith

(and perhaps one of his brothers was too; this isn’t the place for such yellow speculation spread)—

the tragedy of it all: she never got to sing Happy Birthday for him.