The Sun Also Rises

Words crawl across the page as

dead hands with dead fingers carry

throughout the ages.

Hemingway and Bukowski

lie tombstone still

with desert dry bones.

And the marks of Basquiat

still scream across canvas and

discarded wood – scratched out

like heroin veins,

hanging in the homes of millionaires

displayed in the pages of books.

Their voices still speak

from hollow skulls.

Across the void.