i may not be drunk enough to write this
but as you know
where
we
afflicted with the pen
are concerned
there comes a point
you no longer have a choice
that time came tonight
when the music came on all by itself
a ghostly moment alone in the dining room
when lou reed’s voice began to sing
turn to me
from an untouched stereo
the depth of your sadness overwhelmed me
and i felt myself failing you so
i must resist every possible cliche when i say
you punk son of a bitch
stop
counting your curses
the past is indestructible
i’m glad you never made it
i’m happy your kick ass band
was looking east
as culture crawled west
because you would be dead now
and i never would have known you
i wouldn’t have kept writing
and i’d be long gone too
when i consider all that you are
it staggers me to think
how many beautiful things
wouldn’t exist