Basquiat
you poor dead man
played over and over with like a plate of glass
cracked and scattered upon the grass
where the non-touched fall
breaking their stride
striving toward a goal
that the boogaloos placed  upon their heads

you are them
peering through the eyes of monsters you shared
through the canvases you spread
o'er the thin entry ways of the seething world
wondering why you made these ugly screens
staring into their eyes their souls
wondering how you arrived as an heir to their stores

and I look at you hoping
hoping for another suck of weed or vice
another key to open your soul to the world
of acceptance of funds of fabulosity
that your daddy would know it's you
you
and no other than you
who etched a stretch of life
to free your inner gasp
formed in black and colored stripes
running loose and flowing free
toward a day then you'd be someone
before you're dead

but death grubbed you before your time
deformed your breath
before the day you thought you'd be walking the earth
famous
graced
without a stitch

yes you're dead
truly dead
while many rave the screens you slew and left behind
filled with stories they'd never hear
would never hear