There’s not much a poet who’s loved him since she was six can do with this one, the death of Michael Jackson. Maybe because the visuals of him far outweigh any words, positive or negative, that could be or have been written about the most electrifying American dancer ever to glide or moonwalk a stage. The blank journal pages just stare back at me.
The mainstream society that creates both social freaks and idols then destroys them can continue to say whatever it will about the personal trials of the entertainer, but the work he leaves behind is the true measure of an artist’s life. I’m glad that my own artistic talent fails to capture the devastation of losing that little boy who appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show when I was six, the one-gloved wonder who incorporated the sleekest classic dance moves and the sexiest city hip grinds into his unique style, and the guy who made white socks, loafers, and high waters look Bad! Words failing, I turned to youtube to watch him dance, hear his primal yell and jangling boots…and remember the first time I fell in love with a musician.
Now who’s bad?