Walters died Oct. 6 after hiking to a remote spot in Angeles National Forest and shooting himself in the heart, his mother, Hazel Dunham, revealed Monday. She said relatives knew of no motive for the suicide. —Myrna Oliver, Los Angeles Times
said the notion took you
at 13 or 14, reaching for helium
balloons hanged from the Army-Navy surplus
ceiling. 1962: those orbs suspended
made more sense than dirt
razed beneath your feet. enlisted,
but they refused you flight, blamed
your eyes, grounded you to ridiculous treading
elephants whose trunks stole whirlybirds from orange-tinged skies. piloted
big rigs when you marched back home, highways
teeming arterial. dreaming your scheme
‘til ‘82, when you & yours forged papers, stole
45 weather balloons, pumped them with harbored
hopes. dubbed your Sears lawnchair
Inspiration I, planning sequels, leashed your new menagerie to its shaky
arms. your other companions: Miller-Lite, ham sandwich, CB radio, camera,
& that old pistol to pop the globes. signaled down to your girl, scissor
fingers your succinct semaphore, and she cut tangled anchor cords. wanted maybe forty feet
off the ground, a slow drift through the Mojave, munching
lunch with flight you took by force. but 45 balloons thought
different: didn’t stop rising, air rushing past lungs, thinning ‘til you hit three miles high. leaned out
too far
and your glasses fell 84 seconds down. atmosphere
blurred, opened to swallow you. radio crackled, pilots
shouting from LAX, jarring you from reverie. fear
settled in your featherweight bones. staticked
back to base, took
aim with pea-shooter, popped nine balloons before shaking hands
sent your gun chasing your glasses. chair fluttered down, caught
telephone wires. had to shut off power
to the whole town to get you safely
jailed, where they couldn’t think of a charge
but set bail at 4k anyway. confessed
you were cash-strapped, since you’d lately purchased
flight, reasonable man you were. between town fundraisers & prize money
(Bonehead Club of Dallas), you paid up, showed up
on Carson & Letterman to make folks high. make folks
laugh. smirked back, afraid to tell it true:
you blew up your own wings. they asked
for the camera you flew over LA, but you shook
your head, said you’d never snapped its shutter. skipped
through jobs for a decade: security, park ranger, even tried
speaking gigs but nothing took. retreated
to the angels’ forest with your trusted
pistol, said you & nature
got along real well. felt
unbuttoned
chest where flesh
pulsed strongest. cut ties
without note or comment, save
that lawnchair you gave the neighbor kid. (he keeps it
folded in his garage. never
opens it.)