decided to revise the ending to the psalmist after my baby mama told me about something she read on how elvis really died… just added a paragraph to the legend… enjoy
the next project will be a collection of short stories–the first one just begun–Third eye in Texas… will post when it’s done

Praise God in his sanctuary; praise him in his mighty heavens.
Praise him for his acts of power; praise him for his surpassing greatness.
Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet, praise him with the harp and lyre,
praise him with timbrel and dancing, praise him with the strings and pipe,
praise him with the clash of cymbals, praise him with resounding cymbals…
–Psalms 150

And no no song is a book. This book cannot be his songs David’s songs and so not even the rest of it—that first song I heard of him. On 88.1 KDHX St. Louis community radio. At a crossroads in the American Bottom the river valley and a train going by. I can’t put his songs in this book, but maybe if you’ve heard them you would hear hear the music as you read the words. But even then you would hear it in your head and not your heart.

He was found dead after three days. A one room apartment of tenement housing in East St. Louis—in bed so maybe he was sleeping. It was 8th Street just a few blocks down from his father’s old pawn shop. The end of July. Rent was due or he might have gone a few more days before being discovered. A bottle of bourbon was on the nightstand. Vicodin spilled about. He’d paid in cash so no one knew his name. Cause of death was noted as a heart attack. And for a week more he waited in the morgue of St. Mary’s. Until Dulcinea came to collect him.

Of course some people say different. Even his daughter. Seems he got awful bloated in his latter years–a lot of water weight. The fact is he may have died from constipation. From diet and the pills the pills for the pain the pain from the constipation. Fecal incontinence. Doctors now say in some folks the colon is too long, which may have been David’s problem. But he didn’t want a colostomy–he didn’t want to wear a shit bag–at least according to Dulcy. Vanity she and others close to him say. And he didn’t die in bed–sleeping. He died on the toilet.

So it depends. The story of David Threnody’s death. It depends on how you want to tell it.

… and yes you can go no deeper than your birth. In the questions you ask. About death. No deeper than the first song you make. But just like that first time I heard his voice sometimes he turned a corner he made you turn a corner, and you came across yourself again you saw yourself again, but this at a different time, and in that moment you didn’t recognize yourself the details of what you look like your greeting to yourself as to a stranger in this world. And if asked you would probably say you don’t even know where the thoughts came from that make you realize this, this feeling of meeting yourself as a stranger, when it happens, when you remember the first song you made, hearing it again like hearing his voice—the implicit fact that your time is created, your life is created, by your memories of what just happened… I stumbled across this truth. The truth that this book about his life, David’s life, had already happened, the fiction of writing of it had already happened, the questions about his life as a musician already answered. And this is what I am left to face. I am faced with what has to happen. I am faced with asking the questions. Turning the same corner he did and becoming a stranger to this world…

So it is he walked with God

His final prayer his David’s song my story:

Let everything that has breath…