January Poems #27: Wendy O. Williams Is Dead

The death of a celebrity always carries with it a certain level of sureality. Consider the passing last week of actor Heath Ledger--it was one of those stories that you hope is a horrible mistake and wait for a retraction that never, ever comes. When Wendy O. Williams, former porn star and lead singer for the Plasmatics, committed suicide, it didn't seem real--perhaps because she never seemed real. But she was. And her death surprised me.

Wendy O. Williams is dead
and this morning seven
gnats bobbed to the surface
of my dark morning cup
of Guatemalan brew and
were scooped out with a
disgusted spoon while
the smooth-voiced man
on the all-news station
on the black shower radio
on the white tile floor
of my still-humid bathroom
delivers weather and
sports and farms reports
and also the news that
Wendy O. Williams is dead.

Wendy O. Williams is dead,
shot herself in the head in
the woods in Connecticut
where I never pictured her
living much less dying
but I have to admit that
when the smooth-voiced woman
on the all-news station on
my shower radio announced
that the first story after
"Traffic and Weather on the Eights"
would be about a deceased
"Punk Rock Queen" I thought,
"Wendy O. Williams is Dead."

Wendy O. Williams is dead
and all the news article said
in my morning Sun-Times was
that the Plasmatics hadn't
toured in several years, which
was about ten years after
Wendy O. had worn whipped
cream for a bra up in
Milwaukee where she was
busted for indecency but
I'd be way surprised to
hear that there wasn't
at least a little sadness
up there when whatever
smooth-voiced announcer on
a Milwaukee all-news station
playing on somebody else's
shower radio declared that
Wendy O. Williams is dead.