Editor’s Note: English singer and songwriter Amy Winehouse died in London on July 23, 2011, at age 27.

When Amy Winehouse Died

By David Daniel

Black lipstick made sense. Passwords were changed; phones silenced. Fans got her name tattooed on their hearts. My old lady said let’s do a bump in tribute, but when we discovered our stash was gone, an hour on the street produced not a single hookup. They were all in seclusion with their grief.

Against the fade of the long July day I sat listless, watching the cat mince across the kitchen counter. According to online reports, Amy checked out in the wee small hours, with two bottles of vodka for company. She always was a night person. The bare ruined choirs were barer by one. When the cat mewed and licked the faucet it dawned on me he wanted water.

Whither thou goest, I will go. She didn’t look back. People who dug her said, yeah, b/c they knew. Her father, and her ex? They’ll wait a long time for peace.

On Bleeker Street, five hours short of London time, the morning wind played a threnody. Passersby wondered (as they did with Lennon, Harrison, the others) how they were going to fill the silence. A cat wanting water is one thing; a throng of the brokenhearted is something else altogether.

Lady Day dropped a gardenia on the River Thames. We were stuck inside of Mobile with the Winehouse black & blues again. The Ghost Riders in the Sky struck up the band and played a dirge of welcome. Empty Henny bottles, each with a yarmulke on top, turned up on James Dean’s grave in Fairmount, IN, Kerouac’s in Edson, Morrison’s in Père Lachaise.

Moping around I find myself imagining a Club 27 theme park, with holograms—Robert Johnson, Joplin, Hendrix, Brian Jones, Cobain, Pigpen—and a stage, where Amy can snarl and play her ghost-white Strat and shake her tuchas.

On the third day, abruptly, my old lady bounced. Took my gun and left a note: Hey Joe . . . “l’éveil jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs . . . y . . . “nasses / Où pourrit dans les joncs tout un Léviathan.” –Arthur Rimbaud, Le bateau ivre.

No translation. Thanks. I don’t know a mofo word of Français.

Amy Winehouse 9-14-1983 – 7-23-2011.  Scat, Cat. This bird has flown.