He watched them dance their lives. He had the heart
of ice that makes true art. Most of them died.
He’d not have made such art if he had cried
over their deaths. His was the darker part

to note their deaths and then memorialize
their blow jobs, and their drug deals even when
he was the dick that dealt. A fierce stoned zen
that calmly made us see them through his eyes

as if a photograph. Impassively
he saw out all his friends. He sent white flowers
to hospitals and graveyards. Now he glowers
a deaths head with them. If the angel’s glee

that helped him write once of a perfect day,
had stayed, would he have had so much to say?


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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