POEM FOR JACOB

I dreamed about you
shooting Andy Warhol
from a subaru
from an exercise ball
bouncing into infamy.

I dreamed it;
you didn't have to tell me;
I am not amazed by the coming of spring.

Still, they'll say he was a genius
they'll say he was a penius
they'll say he never once turned off the TV
- they were wrong.

Crows...
an Indian summer
as much as I,

"But they are crows
and it's not summer."

"Then summer is not summer."

"Oh but it is, it is!"

- BANG!