the day sugar rose committed suicide


sugar rose, you
hang suspended just above
the afterimage of a halo,
booted feet erected at
attention, marching
toward some unknown,
unconquered
country.

what is it you see
on the horizon?

I see lovers -
ted and sylvia, f.
scott and
zelda, john
f. and jackie.
I see haters and killers -
the man who haunted
yorkshire, the two
that terrorized virginia.
(jefferson would
be appalled and monticello
would erupt in rage
and bury pompeii
all over again.)

you probably see
nothing;
you are dead
after all. you
swing away from
the horizon and
now you
face the painted forests,
the asphalt jungles
where paris and bohemia
paid homage to tulle
dreams and drunken
barstool speeches.

this is where you belong,
sugar rose, leaking
out between
plinks of glasses like
tear gas, to
demonize us all

and drive us out of your
paradise.

oh, but I am
the only one left,
sugar rose. I hid
in the cellar, intoxicated
and drowned because you
turned out
the lights.

you saw everything
then, you saw my halo
and you saw the
railroad tracks
protesting of human
oppression - and
carnegie, that great enslaver
of steel and chemistry.
you saw so
intently that when you
hung everything else
hung with you.

like my halo. like
time and history,
paris is a ghost town and
we are all pale
sickly little angels playing
in yesterday's
graveyard.

sugar rose, you
enchanted us all away
and because you cannot
see,
neither can we.