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