They Prefer You Dead

cause you’re safe that way

(all artists are).

Especially the ones with vision. I don’t have vision, at best I’m a dim light bulb flickering in someone’s basement. But I’ll tell you this: the filament in my bulb was anointed with the blood and energy of yours; and what I’ve learned in this concrete jungle, this new age urbane artistic wasteland is to keep not someone’s dream alive – not even my own – but to keep booring holes thru parasols and allow any bit of truth to seep through.

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s grave in Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn NY. March 2019

The took you cause they thought they owned you–perhaps they did, perhaps
You made your own deal with the devil, who am I to say.
There are certainly no angels to consort with

— but now creeping into the end of the first quarter of the 21st century we will discover one day that

The saints were those who became mistaken martyrs – not because of someone else 
But because of us
And all who let ourselves down
Keep crushing those fingers,
Keep crushing those cray-ons
My soul too needs something to wear.

 

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