Saturday, March 04, 2017


GRIM REAPER came with DEVASTATION. Pete Rossi died. I feel SHOCK splash me, like ice-chilled water. Body shuts down. Disbelief. "This is a joke. A cruel celestial prank. My family's mistaken. They can be histrionic. Another exaggeration." Reality sinks in. Joe described the Body and the Blood. Cops. Medical Examiner. Tumor? Drugs? Investigation? He's 6, riding his Big Wheels in circles. "Watch me big brother." Long hair like a Brady boy, an Osmond brother. We walk Snowball to park on lower side of Frankfort Avenue. Giving him bottle as baby. He's a strong baby. Not a five pound anemic like me. He kicks ass if anyone bothers him at the club where he performs. We're recording albums of my music at Shark Attack Studios. New Wine. Full Circle. He plays flawlessly. He mixes. I bought him a mixing board. "You don't have to pay me back." Mixing evolves, reel to reel, DAT, and digital. We never fought. Sometimes he rages at something. Life. Demons. My calm begets calm in him. Sometimes he felt he failed. I tried to get him to see how many people loved him and his music. Why can't he see that? Club owners. Money stolen on tour in Italy. He cried when I left at 18. Sitting beside me at St. A's church. "Don't leave big brother. Not now. It's too soon." One is taken the other left. Autopsy. Don't cut him. Don't desecrate his temple. It's only his vehicle, like his van it transported him. His spirit, music, memories live on in us. In Heaven there is unconditional loving welcoming arms. It's not him, but I don't want him examined like a purple piece of meat but its the only way to know. His spirit was him but these are the fingers that played his leads, bent the notes, shredded the strings. It must be a nightmare. I'm planning to see him in three weeks. Wake me up, Sherrie. I'll start coffee. NO! All these posts on his memorial wall look too real. He was the youngest, I was the oldest. Wasn't it my turn to go first? "Don't leave little brother. Not now. It's too soon." One is taken the other left.