Remember that time when somebody
died and somebody else brought us food-
all the people are irrelevant-
but you complained that the tenderloin
wasn't up to your standards.
Hearing you say such things about
a perfectly acceptable meal
sent me to the place that makes
me a barbarian to my most intrinsic core,
so I grasped the smoked log of meat with
my bare-heads and hurled it into the rain.
Say something about it now-
now that you have nothing to eat.
People say drugs killed him.
You killed him and you still haven't learned.
You killed him because you never
told him you loved him after he ran away from
home that one time or the time after that.
And I believe that the reason
your photographs are always
tinged with a hint of
the most aching and indescribable regret
is because deep down in the
pit of your greasy, swollen gut
you already know this,
so I don't have to tell you.