Sunday, April 17, 2016


They laid out the corpses of the giant rats side by side,
saying they thought they got so big by eating other rats.
He turned from the screen and looked out at the nearly
finished high rise, home of his future fan base.
And he understood all the bite the hand that feeds you shit,
but Jesus these kids who filled the stadiums
where he played these days –no shoebox clubs
for this mouse- were the kinds of rich jocks
who shoved him around in highs school. How had they
become his audience: the tech bros, the trust fund douchebags,
 did they really relate to his songs, with their lyrics about death,
about peeling back the hide from the skeleton of the universe?
And yet they kept swarming in droves, pumping their fists
and bobbing their baseball caps. Their credit cards paid
for the narcotics, the tacky art, the taxidermy…
he stroked the faded tail of the fox that snarled on his desk.
Funny how no amount of money could get you one of those
huge rats. He’d certainly tried. Someday he would wear a robe
of their pelts, don a crown of their incisors, and he’d hold court
in the penthouse of one of those glass palaces,  unable to see
the filthy streets below for the clouds.

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