entertainment

Michael Jackson’s Son Shares Heartfelt Poem For Late Father’s Birthday

Michael Jackson’s oldest son, Michael Joseph Jackson Jr. – aka Prince Jackson – lead a series of touching tributes to the late star on what would have been his 58th birthday.

In a brief post shared via Twitter and Instagram on Monday, Prince, who was only 12 when Michael died, shared a self-penned poem for his dearly departed father.

Copyright [Getty/KevinMazur] 

Alongside the moving 14-line sonnet – titled “the Myth, the Legend and the Man” – the 19-year-old wrote: “Happy birthday to the Man who was more than a legend. I love you.”

Prince alluded to the singer’s troubled life in the poem, but also stressed the importance of family; specifically drawing attention to how much he cared for his children before concluding that his father is an archangel.

His sister Paris later re-grammed his post on her own account, adding: “Love this.. proud of you big brother. And happy birthday to the man that means more to us than anything and anyone ever could.”

Copyright [Instagram/PrinceJackson]

Michael tragically passed away of acute propofol and benzodiazepine intoxication on June 25, 2009, after suffering from cardiac arrest while preparing for his comeback concert series, but his legacy certainly lives on.

Michael’s brother Tito took to social media and declared Monday “Michael Jackson Day” in a tweet, which was then followed by an outpouring of tributes to the late icon.

Madonna shared a collage of photos of them together, writing: “Happy Birthday to this wonderful and glorious creature!! The King! Gone too soon!”

Copyright [Twitter/Madonna]

The Jackson family later released a statement, which read: “We’re so touched to see such an outpouring of love for Michael in celebration with your events, pics, posts & thoughts. #MichaelJacksonDay”

The chaotic brilliance of Gene Wilder

At the height of his comedic prowess, Wilder had unparalleled control of timing and delivery. His best characterizations comprised conflicts, mimed anxieties for laughs. Staid and chaotic, pensive and pathological, an heir to Buster Keaton (and Bugs Bunny) whose neurotic articulation offered a foil to Woody Allen’s stammering. He could intone a single syllable or come uncoiled like a firehose in a silent comedy. He was not a modest performer. A smarmy sonuvabitch, he embellished and stole scenes and enunciated as if dictating a message to a stupid child, which lent his best performances an air of agitation. His articulation cut like the scalpel he jabs into his thigh in the beginning of Young Frankenstein. (“Fronk-en-steen!”)

Compare Wilder yelling and raving like a mad men to any of today’s boorish bro-comedians, bellowing and braying; whereas they beg for attention, Wilder commands it. He had a natural charisma that only comes from someone with an ego, and when he let loose, it sounded as if his screams, percolating for so long, were erupting from somewhere deep down. Wilder clearly relishes yawping, “You lose! Good day, sir!” at the end of Willy Wonka. Even the saccharine revelation that follows has a jarring edge to it. “You won, you did it!” You’d hate to see what he’d do if Charlie had lost.

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