As you walk away.

15847872Photograph by Keith Morris, Nov/Dec 1971

This is perhaps my favorite picture of Nick. This is the one that will be tattooed on me in some form or another one day. Yesterday was his birthday. He’d be 68. I’m having a lot of trouble believing that. It’s almost inconceivable.

Nick Drake, 68.

It sort of rhymes, doesn’t it?

Anyway, as is tradition, I wrote him a poem. As the vestiges of the day slowly disappeared, I rushed to write it. Who knows why. It’s not like I get a special fan award for remembering him 42 years since his demise. Still.I guess it’s the thought that counts (although it isn’t even good).

I also realized today that he was born right around the summer solstice. Music takes over the world every year two days after his birthday. I think that’s quite poetic.

… enough dilly-dallying, here’s the poem. It is based at the same spot where the photo was taken.

As you walk away



I’m trying to put all of my poetry here, just for the ease of access.

This is an old one, written for Nick Drake, an incredible folk singer from the ’60s, whose music kept me afloat in times I didn’t want to be. I owe Nick much of my life, and while we never shared a moment of co-existence, I’m so grateful for Nicholas Rodney Drake and so, so in love with him.



Death and dignity

It was raining the night she died.

A part of me hopes that she was able to hear the pitter patter of the rain amidst the beeps and hums of the hospital. A bigger part of me hopes that she died knowing that she was loved and cared for.

I hope she died with dignity, because she wasn’t cremated with any.

I’ve never been one for the rituals and customs. Ever since i rejected religion they seem even more absurd. What I do understand is that death leaves behind a corpse that is meant to be treated with respect. The absence of a sound mind is not permission to gawk, to dress it in reds that will never be seen by those eyes, to smear color over faces and hands, to make them look like brides because they died married. Because it is a matter of pride that they died before their husbands.

That is not respect.

It’s not.

Laying her out for everyone to see when you know how conscious she was  of the way she looked, especially after all those rounds of chemo. I knew her; she was my aunt and despite all the bad and the ugly that went down, I loved her. And she would have hated everything that happened.

What meaning to these customs hold anyway? What is gone is gone. If a soul is anything like energy, it has already dissipated. Waves and photons, traversing galaxies, the soul has left the building.

At least let her body leave in peace.

Respect who she was, the woman that lived with a broken body most of her life, who wanted to live so, so badly.

Don’t come and express your sympathy, don’t cry louder because someone else started crying. Don’t talk over and over about how she must be in a better place now. We are all hoping the same. if you really care, don’t take photos of her lying there; Go talk to my mother, who has to see her little sister’s motionless corpse be taken for cremation.

Talk to her husband who spend years trying to do the best and it wasn’t enough. Its never enough.

Talk to her children, who have to spend the rest of their lives without her. It doesn’t matter how old you are, you always need your mom.

Talk to me. Or better yet, just stay quiet.

At least let her lay in peace.


It was raining when they took her away, covered in flowers as dead as she. She lived in pain and chaos, I hope the afterlife treats her better.