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.