to mr bourdain

one last time the music echoed down the hallway

hey ho, let’s go

the four raven dyed heads banging to the simple chord progression and basic odes to life and sniffing glue

i fell into your words

saw a kindred spirit

a rebel with sharpened blade and middling by his own admission, culinary skills reinvented into author

becoming a superstar, a travelling host

a connoisseur of vice

behind those eyes, hidden between the lines, the sultry song of depression

of never quite reaching that place you felt you belonged, felt you should be, lacking that one thing, but fighting on

unafraid to point out the fallacies of those that tried to take your path

their insecurities forcing them to follow where you led

woke to the news you died

suicide

and felt a lump in the back of my throat, tears in my eyes

it was no surprise

the barely checked emotion you tried to hide

but inner anguish cannot be denied

just one last time to be sedated, celebrated, inebriated

a singular being in a world of carbon copy clones

much like your beloved ramones

and i play them loud for you lost soul

fall into the sounds of rock and roll

to rockaway beach while i blitzkrieg bop one last refrain

rest in peace mr bourdain

the world is lacking without you here

your crooked smile and pint of beer

but as energy can neither be destroyed or created

your legacy can not be over stated

and as joey sings what a wonderful world and i feel the growing sorrow burn

a bottle of sake, i’ll just continue to let the record turn

bopping my head to beat on the brat, beat on the brat

beat on the brat with a baseball bat

oh yeah

oh yeah

yeah-ah-ah

it never gets easier losing a hero

you’d think it would after so many have fallen

but it doesn’t

“I wasn’t that great a chef, and I’m not that great of a writer” – Anthony Bourdain

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