Lyric Poet

Poetry by Brent Futo

Copyright Brent Futo 1980-2003.

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"The Execution of Michael D. Kelly"

Onlookers waiting for the execution

PROLOGUE: At 6:00 a.m. on June 21, 2001 Michael D. Kelly, a twenty-three-year-old man with a history of mental illness, commandeered a 200-foot-high construction crane in downtown Atlanta, claiming to be armed.

Why are you up there, Michael D. Kelly?
What are you doing way up on that crane?
Are you a terrorist, Michael D. Kelly?
Or are you just some nut who's insane?

Where is your family, Michael D. Kelly?
Did they abandon you decades ago?
Speak to the cameras, Michael D. Kelly:
Inquiring minds (with live feeds) want to know.

Are you a glory hog, Michael D. Kelly,
Seeking to rise to fame high as your perch?
Why won't you tell us all, Michael D. Kelly?
Why must we speculate, wonder and search?

You'll never really jump, Michael D. Kelly,
It's two a.m. and I'm bored with this show.
I'm gonna go to bed, Michael D. Kelly,
I'll see your ass on that "Good Morning" show.

How could you do this, Michael D. Kelly?
I just woke up and the radio said,
That you had killed yourself, Michael D. Kelly,
While all your fans like me still were in bed!

I think I might know, Michael D. Kelly,
Why you ascended that steel man-made tree,
Built by the hands of those, Michael D. Kelly,
Who never give a shit, 'til your on t.v.

EPILOGUE: At 3:00 a.m. on June 22, 2001 an unarmed Michael D. Kelly tied a short section of rope to the crane platform railing. With live cameras rolling, he hanged himself quietly, never disclosing his reasons to anyone.

Michael D. Kelly only moments before his death

"The Dollie-Maker"

The Dollie-Maker

In a little wooden neighborhood,
In a little wooden house,
Lives a little wooden woman,
With a longtime wooden spouse.
A former radiant "living doll,"
She's long since lost her glow--
A doll that lacks attention dies,
As any ordinary, little grieving girl would know...

But on this night the table's set,
In her little wooden dining room,
For each and every cherished child,
She ever ushered forth into,
Her little, lonely wooden world,
From deep within the closets of
Her little wooden womb.

A place is set for Baby Jane,
And Baby Jean and Baby Jo,
And every other wooden face,
And muslin arm and denim leg,
She ever dared to sew.

And at the head, the dollie-maker,
Creator of a world wherein,
Every little girl is loved,
And every ordinary woman
Finds a prince who dwells within,
A world composed of very many,
Very ordinary men.

"The time has come for all of you
To find a place before a face,
Still dewy-moist with dreams,
Still filled with laughter, hope and love
That flow from youthful streams".

And as for me, I'll leave this note
For Mister Baker, undertaker--
I've just one thing to ask of you
(as a long-time fellow dollie-maker)
Please make me pretty when you're through,
With golden locks of cornsilk curls,
And porcelain features (if you can)--
The dream of all the little girls,
And mad desire of every youthful,
Kind and noble handsome man".

"And don't be sad my wooden friends,
It's quite befitting I should go.
A doll that lacks attention dies,
As any ordinary, little grieving girl would know...

"Bring Me To Life"

Bring Me To Life

Bring me to life,
Destroy this daily death.
Revive my strangled soul
With warm, immortal breath.
Bring me to hope,
Dismember this despair.
Unearth my self-dug grave,
And free me to the air.
Bring me to peace,
Toss chaos in the fire.
And see its floting ash,
Fly high as my desire.
Bring me to love,
As only you can do.
Release me from this corpse,
That hides its heart from you.

Copyright Brent Futo 1980-2003.