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by Michael Salcman Dear Friend: now that I am gone I want you to know I never liked that photo of you on Instagram, the one with the dog named Schopenhauer slobbering on your sleeve. Not to mention the endless uplift of your blog as you bravely faced your final illness and the death that somehow never came. Also, I could barely look at the steady stream of Facebook posts, TMI those smiling pictures of a new family and the saccharine flow about your latest book of verse I knew would kill me. Worse the steady rain of Linked In notes made me scream just because we'd shared a page in the same literary magazine. Why would Google's robots confuse our names as if we were twins? You erased nothing, even after the news broke about your pregnant secretary or how you'd plagiarized my work. I tried to cut you away in life but failed miserably. So I have given in to the age and left you a gift- a monthly message from the grave, this is the first. Copyright 2017. All rights reserved.
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