Those desperate
pretenders clinging to some half overheard bar tale of suburbia while
all around the seeds of hip-hop kleos bloom as lotuses in the puddles
that filled our plungers when nobody had 50¢ for bodega water
Did the silhouette
of a little girl twirl about your psyche the way we we spun our crack
stems at the tail end of a hit, not to make sure the last of the oil
ran down into the blackened chore but for the simple joy of motion?
I'm sorry
I'm sorry that when you
insisted we pull over and beg God for the cessation of the awful
torment, I only half echoed your desperate pleas while wholly bent on
how much time your diversion put between me and my elastic-wrapped
divinity
I'm sorry that when I
heard about your death, I felt nothing save the mild satisfaction of
having one more friend's name to throw upon an altar already sodden
with the blood of all I cared about
I'm sorry that the
God you cried out to chose for his grace the one who joyfully hurled
relapse statistics and barely understood French nihilism at every
glimmer of sacred truth that cut through our endless fog, while the
maggots devour your heroin soaked veins.
