Nov
11
poetry & fame
michael jackson known
to a body wrapped in cloth.
what’s left behind there?
scorched gossip? music?
once we were rockstars:
turned kitchens to stages.
on dim, lonely fridays
the world felt our cries.
now i’m running my fingers
through mamas old hair,
guessing where I’ll lay
when I start going grey.
how many poems
must i leave broken-hearted?
pounding my chest,
oh where is my voice?
still, i trudge to the stage
and fling my vase free—
crystal cracks, poesy flows:
let them guzzle the poison!
© 2009 Constantine Kulakov
