Vincent is Another Name for Australian Beer.

Your resignation letter was torn into twenty seven pieces. The GSR still stuck in your palm.

We heard that your office was consumed by vultures. 

The fiends pecking away on your stapled paper. The damned birds didn’t even let your body cool.

The vultures should of had their wings clipped, because we all have mouths to feed.

But yours was filled with iron.

Watching the stars align like ducks.

Truth at the edge of our Long Island ice tea.

So cold, was your body when those birds flew away. They hadn’t even left a single rose pedal. Not one ounce of information out of place.

And, so what if Birds had history books? 

What stories would they tell? William always told me. “I love you in a place, without space or time.” 

The pecking-order-of-raw-meat. 

Grapes on the vine. 

Your depression like burnt rubber. 

A wet, tire iron. 

The distance between you, and everyone else was a mouse trap. The horizon, where you saw our shadows was moist. 

And, we watched as you sank, up stream in the ancient Nile-

granite in your boots, dimes in your eyes.

We saw you, Vincent, with those vigilant Rose Petals. You were so young then.

Kansas was a part of you, but it was also a breeding ground for intelligent birds. 

And the Starr’s finally aligned in ninety seven. 

And your family was so tired by then. 

With Polk, Finches, Clinger, and Robins, nipping at your bones.

In the dark,

we continued to breathe. While those colorful birds, sang in the morning sun.

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