lifetsyle

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Cadillac Moon


Crashing
again-Basquiat
sends fenders


& letters headlong
into each other
the future. Fusion.


AAAAAAAAAAA.


Big Bang. The Big
Apple, Atom's
behind him-


no sirens
in sight. His career
of careening


since-at six-
playing stickball
a car stole


his spleen. Blind
sided. Move
along folks-nothing


to see here. Driven,
does two Caddys
colliding, biting


the dust he's begun
to snort. Hit
& run. Red


Cross-the pill-pale
ambulance, inside
out, he hitched


to the hospital.
Joy ride. Hot
wired. O the rush


before the wreck-


each Cadillac,
a Titanic,
an iceberg that's met


its match-cabin
flooded
like an engine,


drawing even
dark Shine
from below deck.


FLATS FIX. Chop


shop. Body work
while-u-wait. In situ
the spleen


or lien, anterior view-
removed. Given
Gray's Anatomy


by his mother for recovery-


151. Reflexion of spleen
turned forwards
& to the right, like


pages of a book-
Basquiat pulled
into orbit


with tide, the moon
gold as a tooth,
a hubcap gleaming,


gleaned-Shine
swimming for land,
somewhere solid


to spin his own obit.

Written by Kevin Young

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