(For Peter Greenbaum, 1946-2020)

The British rocker

died for our sins,

of course, right on time.

No ancient mariner,

he ate some acid 

from that smug asshole

Owsley Stanley, who always

had the good stuff, but 

didn’t know what to do 

with it, or himself. Of 

course, he was a legend,

like Liberty Valance, or

Sportin’ Life. Lonely kid

In his basement practicing 

his ax. The ax fell, a long 

time ago, the shock of 

recognition administered 

by all-too-ready mental

health “professionals.”

Clapton is God, the poster 

said, as another child fell

out a window. He was 

fleet of foot, plucked and

fretted -all too often – his

hours upon the stage,

upstaged by the label,

and the labels. And is

heard no more.  Look

on my works, ye Mighty

and despair. Then exit, 

laughing.