Everybody's digging JKT with silver spoons,
skimming the surface of Biloxi's forlorn shores
with a question of "Why there?"
when anyone who's ever been there knows
simply, "Why not?"
Nothing has ever been as lonely as driving
to the edge of nothing, with nowhere else to go.
Cory has a butterfly caught in his typewriter
(his words, not mine), and the colors are coming
Parcel Post at a later date; meanwhile we wait
another mystic year for time to fold back
and show us what really happened
when the sun rose over the ocean-stained morning--
something lessened the moment, stealing brilliance,
turning the March morning back to gray cold...
Everybody's digging JKT now, though,
they're just digging him right up
in skulduggaries, published bio-fuckeries,
they just can't get enough...
Nothing is more marketable than a tragedy.
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Submission Name: What Sells In Hell
