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Michael Joseph Jackson (August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009) was an American singer, songwriter, dancer, and philanthropist. Dubbed the "King of Pop", he is regarded as one of the most significant cultural figures of the 20th century.
While performing a high-energy dance routine, and filming with his brothers at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, performing his hit song “Billie Jean” in front of a cheering crowd, a spark from the pyrotechnics used on set caught onto Jackson's hair, causing it to catch fire. The singer was quickly engulfed in flames and sustained serious burns to his scalp and face. A pronounced collective gasp could be among the audience.
One headline never broadcast, but dreamt up just now courtesy yours truly meant to lighten the horrible tragedy in retrospect follows. Holy smokes! January 27, 1984 said pyrotechnics disaster singed hair off head of Michael Jackson, which traumatic experience set mental, physical and spiritual health of global moonwalker into a tailspin.
I cannot imagine how he invariably writhed
in emotional, physical and spiritual agony
experiencing catastrophic misadventure:
the remaining quarter century of his life
forever blighted with searing pain rooted with
palm size bald patch.
Fifteen years ago today June 25, 2024,
which occurred at exactly 2:26 post meridiem
marks the death of Michael Jackson,
directly linkedin to fiery trauma
irrevocably debilitating his existence
finding him forever dependent
on strong addictive medicine.
Even at his demise crowded house wowed
stellar performer in stone cold silence he vowed
June 25, 2009 embraced
death be not proud
though global outpouring of grief loud
now his spirit kept inside icloud
one half century old boys' life truncated
at long last he doth slumber
party to interrogation disallowed.
Fifteen years elapsed since that fateful day
when I happened to be in the "Green Room"
(with all ears figuratively glued to the radio)
housed within where our family lived
at 1148 Greentree Lane.
Although an exodus of family, friends, relatives and strangers will long since attend the public homage (paying emotional tribute to this thrilling late brother of yours), I wished to compose a eulogy (no matter that a plethora of condolences presumably inundated the Jackson mail juke box) and identify salient traits within what many considered a sensitive reclusive individual.
Upon hearing news sans death,
where tears of sadness would not stop
one known as king of pop
I immediately experienced state of shock,
whereby tears did fall
at sudden void
within entertainment industry
son of bebop
no matter media portrayed him
eccentric and off the wall
set trend for subsequent talented folk
from heavy metal to hip-hop
evoking images of bad butterflies
wanna be startin’ somethin’ with Paul.
No matter whether eyes alight on these words of mine, an impulsive spurious whim overtook me (nearly a week at time of writing this portion since disbelief at cessation of the famous moon walker screamed across the headlines, (which many at first considered some kind of hoax or monkey business), that je nais sais quois inner sense of fulfillment nonetheless appeased from this stranger in Moscow.
Fans implored medicine men at storied
prestigious U.C.L.A. emergency ward
“i want you back”,
yet the pale man in the mirror
could not hear plaintive wail
his emaciated body riddled
with puncture wounds
to quench where aching pain roared
harboring a lifetime legacy of loneliness
perhaps beset with psycho/social travail
but black or white, the world
(learning sobering truth)
mourned and amassed in a hoard
paying obeisance to late icon, who
kept himself and progeny shrouded in a vale.
Conscious this communique might get lost in a sea of tsunami like mourning pouring down from persons that dwell from all four corners of this globe, the unstoppable urge (could not beat it back) to invoke providence penned countless top of the chart number one platinum singles and albums intoning now only how to shake your body (as that awesome dancing machine) but also that we are here to change to world.
Who could foresee that lovely one and
cherubic looking boy of the Jackson five clan
would evolve into a musical wunderkind
and appear unbreakable with Billie Jean
epitomizing “the girl is mine” stance despite
being a courteous and flirtatious gentle man
winning accolades plus
marrying pretty young thing
never in jam with moolah green
unbeknownst to public limelight
cooking a witches brew,
whence Lisa Marie Presley ran
hermetic isolation grew in tandem
with scurrilous accusations
found him not to be seen.
After paying final respects, i.e. uttering final adieu, bon voyage, fare thee well, et cetera from those allowed permission to weep at gravesite (probably at Neverland), this letter will hopefully reach thee after those madding crowds return to their respective abodes most likely still wincing every now and again upon reflecting on premature departure of a native son.
