A scenario: I'm the Star, Lauren, Faye, Ali, little stars, we tour America in a '59 Dodge, they read my smoldering poems. I climbed the chute and lowered myself onto the Brahma bull, we jump the fence trampling crowds, ford rivers, are happy. All fantasies of a life of love and laughter where I hold your hand and watch suffering take the very first boat out of port. The child lost his only quarter at the fair but under the grandstand he finds a tunnel where all cowshit goes when it dies. His epitaph: he could dive to the bottom or he paddled in black water or bruised by flotsam he drowned in his own watery sign. In the morning the sky was red as were his eyes and his brain and he rolled over in the grass soaked with dew and said no. |