ain’t no one singin’ now but me

depressed by the rain and

by the snow,

but endless blue sky weighs down on you,

smothers you beneath its mindless beauty, and the

idea of poets, of poetry, makes you want

to slit your wrists, and so you

get older

you assume you accumulate wisdom,

but you still fail every test

that gets thrown at you

you don’t even know they’re tests

it’s like drowning on

dry land,

right?

you stand at the far edge of some

empty parking lot in the relentless afternoon heat

and feel your lungs fill with water

you call up someone you knew

25 years ago, and she laughs

says she just needs to ditch her husband

and she’ll be right over,

and at least desperation is still a

feeling, right?

at least the summer of ‘92

can’t last forever

why the fuck didn’t we

know that then?

[somewhere near the end it said you can’t do this; i said i can]

cobain then kristen then your father,

and either every death has meaning

or none of them do

and every moment is the one your

whole life has been leading up to,

and i can see how this might

paralyze you

i can see why victims are necessary,

why politicians are assassinated

we destroy

to see what will grow

we build cities from bones

to help us get out of the cold

and shannon, right? and

then layne and then chris,

and you know why, or at least

you think you do

you understand art

but not genocide

not the idea of grinding

small children to death under bootheels,

and for some this makes you

a failure

for some,

you become a liability

a starving dog

at the back door or a prophet

dragged through town on

easter sunday

a martyr, sure,

but not a victim