Dead Bull Lee

I’ve never met you

hombre invisible

and I never will.

On the day you died I sat

in my kitchen watching a friend 

roll falafel.  That day I’d found 

myself paging through Queer at the 

Starlight Bookstore wondering 

if my teeth were brushed and if my hair 

looked funny.

Why hadn’t I read you? I feel 

everything you wrote from the 

trepidation of my love. At 7pm 

that night Ricardo called and told me 

you died. An excuse for bestial 

rowdiness, hovering about the bar,

canceling sobriety like a date with

an ugly stranger.  Strangely enough,

we read a line from City Lights Review

where you said, “the rumors of my

decline have been grossly exaggerated.”

In the interview you quoted Kerouac,

saying each star will fade from the

night sky one by one, and this night

I think of Edward Francis and all

the Dead Pool wandering still

stoned on South Street heading

over to Dobb’s to rustle up some freebies

or to stand on stage pages falling before 

them like conquered armies. 

But in the end, isn’t it the page that lasts; 

from first editions to front page obituaries?

Yes, that’s right, all that will remain of old Bull Lee

is black ink on cheap white paper.