IT'S WINTER, THE SKY IS DARK.
IT ISN'T NOON YET.
I'M READING A BOOK OF POEMS BY AIDS-DEAD BOYS.
I AM IN DANGER OF DEPRESSION.
I HAVE LIVED MY LIFE WITH LOW-GRADE DEPRESSION, ALL OF IT.
IT'S THE PRICE YOU PAY, THEY SAY, FOR BEING ARTISTIC.
THE WORDS OF THE AIDS-DEAD BOYS FLOOD OVER ME.
MANY I CAN'T EVEN UNDERSTAND.
AND I'M TOO LAZY TO RE-READ THEM.
THESE DAYS I LIKE THE ONES THAT ARE EASY, BUT NOT
GREETING CARD.
FEW, OR NONE, ARE HAPPY POEMS.
WHY WOULD THEY BE?
WHEN YOU'RE DYING, SHITTING IN THE SINK, FLOWERED WITH LESIONS, EMBRACING YOUR BLINDNESS,
WHY WOULD YOU WRITE A HAPPY POEM?
EXCEPT AS COMPENSATION:
YOUR BRIEF LIFE REDUCED TO A FEW LINES OF VERSE,
COLLECTED IN AN ANTHOLOGY.
GOOD FOR YOU, POET-BOYS,
RESURRECTED AT LAST IN THIS VOLUME.
MY HEART GOES OUT TO THOSE WHO WROTE THEIR DYING
POEMS TOO
. . . BUT DID NOT MAKE THE ANTHOLOGY.