He Is

Chris is

Soapboxes and

Tangerines

And Lemon

Snaps and

Full on

Kissing in

Front of the

Church and

Those flyers for

The Zen Buddhist

Flea market,

And he's

Yonge &

Dundas and

He's you and

Himself

At once and

The pear trees and

He is the

Gravestone and

Sometimes

Morrison's ashes

And he's yellow,

Black and

Turquoise and he's

America and

Blackcurrant tea and

The theory of evo-

Lution and he's

Marxism at it's

Best and he's

The Bible for

Which he's

Not sorry and

Today he's male

But who

Knows

What tomorrow

Brings and he's

A lamp and

A wristwatch and

A leathery hand

And a breathtaking

Skyline followed by

Orgasm 1 2 3

And he's remorse and

Failure and he's

Still not sorry

And

He's a humming

Computer and

A deskchair

In a

Black hole in a

Book upon your

Desk

And

He is crystal

Meth at night

And he is a

Saltwater poet

And

A

Coward and a

Cripple and

He's patient

And sometimes

A tree outside

Your window.

 

And all you can think is

Jim Morrison wasn't

Cremated.