30:30 2014, Day 16

Elegy for Harold Ramis

We stagger deep

and deeper into the jungle

of farce. Every vine

we reach for is a snake.

Under the skin each sweet

berry bursts with synaesthesia

and sight gag. The path

that can be named is not

the true path, says Dad

setting the Odyssey

on cruise control past 

LAST GAS 80 MILES.

Every world this side of death

has rules. In the good ones,

the slouching man who doubted

and forced his smile sees the rule

just in time, wanders out

of the cloud covered in dust

or ash or fluff the winner. O Harold,

if there isn't heaven for a writer

of good worlds, haunt us.