PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

(in memory of Philip K. Dick, dead March 2nd, 1982)

The tales he tells, now that his mind is free
of failing flesh; his creativity,
his narrative verve, and his voice's diction,
have undergone enormous evolution
from what he first had known as science fiction.
The wretched squalor of his poverty
(in such a wealthy, prosperous, safe nation)
and lack of an assured appreciation
drove him to try to soothe his desperation
with dangerous psychotics and cheap booze;
and with the false bravado to refuse
to recognize these habits as abuse.
Cycles of highs and lows reached no conclusion.
But from him, I could not resign as Muse.
Like any man, he magnified his flaws:
these were exploited by a far worse cause.
The same old lure that Evil had designed
to stifle and torment the most renowned
poets of earth:  I wept so, hafing found
Homer screaming when he drunk himself blind.)
My California poet of the stars
sang through the existential doubt that mars
the joy of life, without which none can cope;
always bereft of any shred of hope.
So I salvaged his mind the day his brain
died from the unrelenting load of strain---
mental and physical, a lifetime's worth---
before his personality could drain
away, and his corpse dropped into the earth.
His androids may dream of electric sheep,
but dreams like his are messages to keep
new visions flowing through the galaxy
and constellate their own ubiquity.
For genius, and all of which it consists,
must not be left fo fade like morning's mists;
but with the whole cosmos gathered as stage,
sing life's love poem from the most sacred page.

Starward