Trent
Bent to that
demon wind
blowing from within
and without.
Without a home
curled tight to the needle,
cops slide you in to the
bag like you weren’t.
Man,
you were a great voice whose
words we so badly needed
to hear:
Here;
haven’t got enough
words
to cover this hole in my gut.
Feel it rotting too,
one step behind you
buddy man.
I don’t want us to go there
all of us
together alone
narcotizing
the pain-joy
of fear-success.
Was it the shadow of Doug’s
rescue?
Celebrity charge to the front page
and outside
the paper
lying on the cement
you’re dead.
Trent man,
why you went out that way
curled round the needle
on the street--no back
flat on it and hurting
medicated in to no-land;
other land;
over.
Blue land, blurry blue of better wombs
I can’t dare to cross it
I’m burnin blurry here.
I remember the way you transcribed that interview getting it down word by word word for word but
I don’t know the sound of the tape that was running inside you at the brink of extinct:
link to who we really are.
Margot says you wouldn’t have died like that in Cuba no homeless heroin-heros bunked down on concrete.
I remember the way you packed that pack every night: loading a tome from the library--was it Whitman?--after a day of pecking words on our whizbangnew G4 speedsters while you sleep out.
Fucking city without.
Demon wind without
10,000 out
every night out
staying warm with blankets,
booze, needles, and shared stories.
Trent
you told us story: Your grandad in hiz crazy
cave with the carvings how can you be gone?
You can’t be gone.
You are still here inside me
making me look at my demons
that could kill me slowly
or quickly.
+++++++++++++
Trent Hayward aka Harpo Corleone.
Died on the Street: June 3?2?, 2000