Upon hearing of the death of Hunter S Thompson

You, Gonzo Fucker exclamation point.
Only you, scathing senior citizen, resident of a nation
that hasn’t existed since 1969, if it ever did,
never will again, gun to the head.

Drugs in the trunk, desert in the frontal lobe.
The only good junkie is a celebrated junkie. Sunglasses
in that bad movie, ink illustrations of thick hallucinations,
desert in the trunk, drugs in the frontal lobe.

This was the only way for you to go, Geriatric Trigger,

anything else would have been bad fiction,
there isn’t anymore room for you here.
I wonder why he did it,
the latest Republican in some bunker chuckling.
Brains in the barrel, bullet in the sky.
Grandpa, your unwanted wannabes imbibe everywhere
tonight, spread on the pavement, watching sky,
drunk desert stars speeding toward them,
wobbling in orbit, smearing desert scars.

The only good junkie is a revolutionary junkie,
an articulate junkie somewhere outside Barstow.
Bats on the other side of the typewriter, squealing under keys.
Alligators on the other side of school bells, scraping on sidewalks.
This endless procession doesn’t interest you.
You never wanted this poem, head to the gun.

Dust and teeth gnashing, only one way it could have gone,
a Cadillac between here and imaginary heaven,
the heaven where you have applied for political exile, Old Man.
It’s not that I blame you,
it’s that I can’t yet follow you.
You, Crude Quaalude and Whisky Breath.

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