A Cry to Heaven, "How could this be?!"

So much she gifted us, on so much we fed

Cry again, "How and when and why was it she?"

A lifetime of belles-lettres, forever to be read

Sometimes a fair sky, light clouds and bright sun, most of it was rain and shadows and fog

Vienna, Rancho, Paris and Budapest

San Francisco, Amsterdam, Miami and Prague

The globe in her velvet, emerald purse, New Orleans is where she shall for eternity rest

A friendly voice from a Garden District dollhouse, welcoming, stoic and serene on First Street

"Please, wait just a moment," she asked; a moment, a month, happy waiting we are pleased to do

The dolls kept eye, keeping her home safe, until we, gracious strangers, may dear Anne have the chance to greet

A moment or few passed, Violin was then passed, too, onto reverend Anne, by a quiet sweetness named Sue

Violin sits still, signed and prized, amongst Twain, Poe, Shakespeare and, humbly, mine

Across a continent, in an old, French town, in a misty shroud of bêtes-noires and mystery

Lies a family in love, together forever, fashioned finally, by design

Anne Rice, you are gone, but also still here, in our hearts and on our shelves, today, tomorrow, for all of man's history

Rest in peace, cherished Anne. You are missed.

When Nirvana Turns: Smells Like Old Applebee's

The end of the World has been heralded and bandied about for months now, mostly amongst hyper-religious fundamentals, the superstitious and the odd (I do mean odd.) guest on late-night radio's Coast-to-Coast with George Noory: May 21st, they say. I figure if it does happen, I'm truly fine with it because in my mind, it already happened at an undisclosed Applebee's somewhere in Southern California. It happened before I knew what hit me; the good thing is I was very, very okay with it and pleased with where I was ... spiritually, if not gastronomically.