Now this is the part--
we're going to go into what I was going to read,
some of the things I want to read,
that would give homage to my father.
My father died about four or five years ago.
And I think it's always important to pay tribute
to your parents.
This is the poem that, when the people killed themselves
in Rancho Santa Fe, 39 of them--
and I was on my way to my wife.
My wife has an art gallery in downtown San Diego.
And I was riding on the freeway and they
said 16 people were dead in this place.
And by the time I got there, it was 18.
And so by the time I left it was 20.
And so by the time I got home, it was like 22.
The next morning - So I knew I was going
to write a poem about that.
I didn't know what.
But the next morning they said it was 39.
So I knew it was going to be-- this poem is
going to be a sestina because it's 39 people dead.
39 lives, cold trip.
The whole thing is then, you had to pick six work.
So this part--
[LAUGHTER]
Let me see.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
Yeah.
So this poem is called "Sestina for 39 Angels."
"There was no screaming to announce Hale-Bopp comet's
second tail.
No screaming when those 39 people left their bodies,
their containers behind.
Cover their faces with purple, silk shrouds, folded triangles.
Lay down smiling and fell into this deep sleep
Marshall Applewhite had prescribed for them
deep inside their death mansion in Rancho Santa Fe.
They knew themselves as angels, sleuths at creating websites,
cruising the internet, space angels flying
on wings of ancient dreams upward
to Hale-Bopp comet's tail.
And the only way to get there, through the invisible doorway
of death.
Launched through skies of their minds,
they will their bodies on Earth as people of Jonestown
did, to be recycled through sleep.
Bodies board-stiff and bloated, looking for peace.
Skin purple going black as the clothes they wore.
Covered 39 faces with purple symbols.
The color of lenten Holy Week.
When Jesus rose up to join angels,
39 travelers wore black Nike shoes weaved
through 39 catacombs of sleep.
Dream themselves up like 39 shooting stars
to Hale-Bopp comet's tail of silver ice,
where they would transform their bodies.
18 buzz-haired castrated males.
21 females serving death's internet to pass
through heaven's gates needle eye.
And death, not even a spot over here, for these souls to rest
dressed in black and purple.
Quarters for phone calls.
$5 bills for whatever urges their bodies
needed before flying through space.
39 dreams.
They would be truly angels rendezvousing
with the mothership, hidden inside Hale-Bopp comet's tail.
Live with extraterrestrials there
in a sleeve of ice, silver ice.
After sleep cut them loose to flow through steep mystery
above as sleek, like rocket fuel, fell away over stages.
Left them asphyxiated in death.
After phenobarbital, applesauce and vodka,
they knew the silver ice tail as the sign
they were waiting for to cover themselves
with shrouds of purple.
Leave behind computer sky, screen skies.
They flew purely as angels now toward a higher source
than any conflicting urges of their bodies.
A tangle of websites conquer and control their bodies,
surrendering the improvisation of living.
They swam in sleep, drifting slowly
as motorless boats on the sea, where
homeless angels took 39 pot pies and cheesecakes
for their journey.
They kissed death hard with dry mouths.
39 people down from 1,000 pursed lips of purple.
Open in wonder, they flew up to enter Hale-Bopp comet's tail
of silver, ice particles.
Gashes, bodies, grinning there like death.
Skulls flashing inside sleep.
Inside where I'm dreaming now of purple,
faith flashing bright as new angels inside Hale-Bopp comet's
tail."
Thanks.
[APPLAUSE]