Jesse Tangen-Mills, Aug 20, 2009
His arms had been akimboed.
I could see his pale ankles peeking out from under his pants legs.
Everything hung from him, from his anti-gravity,
from his artistic anarchy, or agony,
and, yet, presently he looked as though he wanted to dangle, not
stiffly hang as he did, because of the nails he’d worked into his feet. All
of it, the uncanny (awful), overwhelmed me.
Only when I blinked did his permanent suspension become real.
I guess I knew he was dead before I even opened the door. As he had expected,
the ounces of blood that he was had
oozed out under the door. I think he was alluding to redemption via aqua.
Suicide: Literature’s Highlight Reel
Ray’s, like the rest, was celebrated with re-appraisal of
all he had ever written, his greatest words, his life of letters projected in slow motion with a flashy voice over,
nothing like he had set it, and as I had fought it.
It all came like a God-flood with damp thunder.
Jesse Tangen-Mills is a teacher, journalist and critic in Bogotá, Colombia. He is currently working on
a way to employ “quaestor” and “shibboleth” in the same sentence.