Ode to Kathy Acker
Pastels glaze the world,
The melding of love and peace,
The union of flowers and hippies,
Until you look further; things unfurled (fucked).
The flowers wilt,
The heart pricked by lead and metal,
History is not sentimental,
One remains in dusk,
An outcast to color,
Their remarks are brusque,
But these wits are multicolored.
It is imagination, painted by the inner demon,
Their personal cuntry–their freedom.