They say I need to talk to a picture for this exercise.
Like Richard Corey, you were the envy of your generation.
You had it all - the women, the booze, the drugs, money,
success. You even had a child and the beginnings of a family.
Like Richard Corey, you threw it away. Was it a momentary impulse?
What did you feel and think when the first pellets broke flesh. Was it
a fast death? Did you find the relief you looked for?
Now a generation weeps and worships you.
The cult of the dead has found something of worth there.
Are you out there with Hendrix and Morrison and Joplin? Have
you joined the pantheon of dead poets, made immortal because
their poetry never reached maturity?
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