when time collects the bag

it has to be in august.

b and i came into it,

w and j left out of it.

the Sanskrit glows on sacred

bricks. the faces, the silence;

crystalized into three ages.

chainlink thorns on sides made

of pain.

black heads blue eyes

to the east lays paradise.

to the west blue dreams

dunked into the black ocean.

mother crowned you prince with bone splints,

but father did not sup with you.

courtly sun king alone out loud;

in a dream that no one’s seen.

once you went to sleep

your soul did not recover.

no blood dies at 700,

early in the new world.

oh heart of hearts,

your star hangs above the floor.

third age in youth you left,

the somber august came in haste.

to Jean-Michel Basquiat