Carl Jung said that the big question was not where you went when you died, but rather, where you before you were born. On July 18th, on a yearlong ago, Hunter Thompson showed up from parts unknown. Happy Birthday Hunter! This is my thanks to the edge. The Death of Hunter S. Thompson, in Blank Verse At night on longish sweeps of coastal road, as fog and dampness coat the graveled path and ocean winds caress the broken shore with summer mists that wash the evening clean. The engine roar ablates an icy steam as man and bike now drift to catch an edge; the drop-off deep, its concrete railings worn, the centerline now vague and mostly gone. The engine redlines, clutching up a gear, as silence screams beneath a rubber smell. The black Madonna two-wheeled gypsy whore on meaty beast of iron polished bright, soft helmet flapping loose against the wind as haunches flex to seat him for the slide. His fears a focused symmetry of time as seconds tic...
