SEEING STARS (OR, WHY I DECIDED NOT TO BE FAMOUS)

maybe it was Jimi or 

Janis when I was only

seven, sacrificing their

magic in a halluncinatory

dream of alcohol and drugs.

maybe it was Freddie Prinze

when I was fourteen

with a gun in his hand

Quaaludes and bullets

spread on the table 

in front of him like 

deadly M&Ms.

Maybe it was Rebecca Schaffer

when I was twenty-seven

who died, not by her own hand

Or bad choices,

but by a dream

machine that murdered her

with its bottomless need.

Maybe it was River Phoenix

when I was thirty. I watched

the news about him

at a comedian friend’s condo

as he lay dead on the street

In front of The Viper Club. 

Maybe it was Kurt Cobain

Who pulled the trigger

The following year, when I was thirty one

And starting my actual career, waiting

for my family to begin,

who taught me the final lesson

About what is necessary 

for The Art.