Ozzy Klate was a poet boy who lived in Amherst. He got a hold of some heroin and drown himself in his sleep. His lungs told his brain that he was mid-ocean and being swallowed by something larger than himself. Why would his lungs lie? So, his brain turned them off, kind of like power save mode, and he died an unfortunate sailors death right there in his bed one night in the middle of Wildwood. His stupid git parents, claimed he had been uber-experimental and they weren't really surprised by his death though they were of course saddened, he died down the hall from them after all. They began to worship the boy after his death like any rockstar gets his dead self worshipped. There were newspaper articles, cds made by people that knew Ozzy wrote lyrics, small publications of the thousand pages of poetry his father claimed he had penned.One day whilst landscaping for the Emily ****inson estate, I found a pen sticking out of the ground. Inscribed on it were Ozzy's name and a line of poetry. Commemorative pens.Weird-*** parents, I tell ya. Was Emily a fan, then? Or was some Amherst high fan a fan of both poets and made a meeting of the minds here or uttered some incantation to fuse the poetic souls in the afterlife, with a meeting of earth and pen? Angst and grief are funny bedfellows.
I , being another Amherst poet, neither famous for my black bread recipe nor my heroin problems, infamous maybe for heckling of select board, or brooding on the edge of town in a large black over coat, I actually received sympathy cards when the boy passed away. A decade my junior , I had never even met him. I had certainly never read any of his work. Only recently did I accidentally discover his grave. It's a rock, with the boys name in a few languages, with many trinkets left upon it, including a new harmonica, still in the box. I left my email address in an empty altoids tin, on a scrap of paper that the rain will probably destroy.Why not make some friends who may have actually known him? I still have never read a line of his, beyond what was chosen to be placed on that portentous pen.
I guess this is an essay on, how art... can reach out ghostly hands, spirit fists to knock on your souls door.Weird in isolation or in association, poetry binds.
(Below: Ozzy's grave Bhudda)

prayer of the reality between ''soul -transmission''the tibetan book of the dead speak of a contemplative practice through which advanced yogis and yoginis can voluntarily leave their bodies by ejecting their subtlest consciousness out of the top of their heads and transmitting it into a buddaverse,or pure land they learn to do this by receiving initiation into this art,then practicing through long retreats the alignment of consciousness and the subtle neural energies.but remember natural liberation is dangerous to practice without initiation.OMANI PADMI HUM OMANI PAYME HUM.COMPASSION.

I've been other places.Maybe that's why my endocrine system is so sc.rewed. Ha. I've always been sent back, though,lol.

your thyroid should be checked then ,have a blood test done to make sure your levels are o.k.

i just thought ,your hormones could be off.

Wow.
Humans are funny beings... dead or alive.

Hormones are fabu, thanks. Hospital here has a wing with my name on it.I don't imagine there's a whole lotta other folks more aware of what their bloods doing, moment to moment.

Ches...right? lol

Beautiful photo, Pen!

Does the hospital wing have a sign saying "Pen Effin' Dragon"? LOL. You and Bree could def make one; get some good art in a hospital for a change.

Well now that is a most interesting little piece and yes how death can open doors for some is a strange thing. You never know you may one day get an email from that person that did know him.

did you know that when a body is cremated it weighs 7-8lbs.

PLYE....Tyvm, and yes, they let me have my space at the ill-fitting pyjama prison...and they call me much worse, roflmao...like 'escapee'
ha!

A shut door, equals an open door, thank you for reminding me of that Pos...I hope someone does contact me sometime...

...and the soul weighs 21 grams.. so cremation reduces the body to brain size?...just as thick and grey I presume.

can you weigh that on a digital scale, FOLKS!

"PLYE....Tyvm, and yes, they let me have my space at the ill-fitting pyjama prison...and they call me much worse, roflmao...like 'escapee'
ha!"

To escape from such a place is good indeed!

I agree Hope you're doing well tonight!

You're here! No one's ever here when I'm here lol. Hope tonite find u well as well!