You loved that girl who sang for Clown Alley. I remember the night we saw them play. I saw a tragic passion I don’t envy never to have felt. You were a virtuoso on the piano. You were the “oldest punker and the poorest Jew” who OD’d in a warehouse south of Market. I don’t know why, but your memory sticks like gum on the heel of my shoe. You killed yourself on ******, but you are alive every time I think of you.
No more bird song. No more tree to perch on. Only gray silted air to take wing. And no air fit to breathe. Only sick, hungry humans, squalid filth, billions upon billions spread far and wide. This cancer is terminal. Death is mercy.
No Mother’s pride and joy. Nobody’s hero. My companion is the bottom of a bottle. Sixth Street is home. Next stop: General Hospital. Resplendently conveyed on a stainless steel pedestal, under marquee lights. I am the star. Unclaimed refuse. So scatter my ashes over Sixth and Folsom, and let the rain carry my troubles out to the big blue sea— the nursery where it all began.