Tough love Killed Kurt Cobain. Magnified The World by suggesting some denials are not sweet. A shot gun blast replaced Heroin wings; Heaven descended without the flesh. Media’s no cult but a way of life for everyone. The answers were money and fame—the trailer home purity of flannel plaid and broken boots became well-priced souvenirs of a prefabricated then merchandised pain—while delicate fingers strummed silver strings and tender blue eyes watched a small window filled with thickening rain. No one knows which neuroses is to blame. The solitude of the soul is where compassion begins. Conditioning disperses the light and imprisons the mind. We’re dialing the truth on isolated telephones; where are you calling from? Counselors may preach personal progress, but conformity’s the ultimate lie. Children grow up. Dreams Fade away. Tough Love Killed Kurt Cobain.
(yes, kids, a prose poem. One of the last I wrote that I liked. Always wanted to do something with it. copyright 1995)
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