Dear Doctor

Dr. Grigory Simkin
9.12.1940 - 11.15.2007

Dear Doctor was an old sinner, 

Fond of the bottle and artery-busting food,

Having been around a few blocks, 

Not all of them in good neighborhoods. 

He was an untidy old bird,

Neither politically nor spiritually correct, 

Hopeless with money or anything practical,  

Bad at following rules, instructions, and beaten tracks,

And instead treading crooked paths 

That no one sane and sober would ever choose.

He hoarded books – on the shelves, on his desk, 

On the chairs, the bed, the floor, and in his memory –

And cited them with gusto. 

He loved playing with knowledge and with his cat 

That smelled of his cologne.

He watched mind-numbing action flicks and wept over Mozart.

He told blue stories and cracked salty jokes 

That would keep you chuckling for days

And that you could carry around with you 

Like medicine against gloom and respectability.

He could be a character in his own off-color anecdotes,

Unable to resist making people laugh even at his own funeral… 

Every now and then he was wrong and confused, 

He did absurd and exasperating things

And bumped against life’s sharp corners  

Too often to be called a wise man. 

And he could certainly use a few of his own therapy sessions.

Dear Doctor was a righteous man.

He spent himself with suicidal generosity 

Helping, healing, and giving comfort and peace. 

He was real and knew what was truly important 

And could see through the veil. 

He could make a sacred feast out of bread and vodka

And any day a holy day. 

He knew how to become a deity that rejoices in imagination, 

A playful god who exhales, creating the worlds.

He knew how to travel through the unknown,

Grasping at the filigree web of hypotheses 

And weaving your own myth.

Wounded and bruised, his heart in tatters 

From his many sorrows, but never bitter, 

He chose to love what was difficult to love

And see the good in both the good and the rotten. 

He wielded an exquisite arsenal of soul-healing tools,

With an occasional sidelong glance at Papa Freud on the wall, 

And did magic with his energy.

He helped people to become unafraid 

Of their formidable true Self 

And of their mothers-in-law. 

My unwavering advocate, he would say, 

“You are goodness and light,” – 

Until the many pieces of me 

Didn't want to fly apart anymore.

He let me take my own breath away 

Every time I discovered a new reality,

Filling twelve notebooks with extraordinary dreams 

And the thirteenth one with my thesis.

He walked me through my many battles, 

My clunky weaponry and my love of destruction,

And helped me make peace with the mirror.

He would guide me in flights 

Into the realms from which I come, 

To meet my kin and foe and gather their teaching stories

To make living in this world more tolerable 

Until one o’clock next Wednesday...

As a young man, he once saw Nevsky Prospect 

Set ablaze by the new sun

And decided that forever reaching toward a distant light 

Was how he wanted to live.

Wherever a band of other holy satyrs 

Is now roaring with laughter at his impious tales

Of interstellar mischief,

Here, his wish has come true.