Love saved him many times
for the sake of a
loveless marriage,
each overdose seeking to fill a
six feet deep,
Love brought him back
to the endless grind of
reused needles
and the rocking and rolling of
stomach pains,
Love saving him like the
of the life he was trying to
His spine could not bear the
Grungy crown of a generation,
nor the Stratocaster scoliosis
or the
Punk anger,
so he finally took himself
with a shotgun
and escaped Love’s
heart-shaped box
and fame
and himself
to the Nirvana of
a Hemingway cliche,
rehabilitated at last
in the Lotus bloom
of buckshot.

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