Somewhere in a pawn shop waits
A pistol packed
With a bullet for my brain:
The final antidote to pain
This piece, a poem composed when I was in my twenties, now illustrated with neon imagery as I’m in my seventies, conveys my morose artistic maturation.
It is not (necessarily) a cry-for-help, rather a voicing of amplified adolescent angst formatted as a postcard, should the need arise to print it out and present it, personally or by post, as perhaps a cry-for-help.