I bought grapes and
yellow dates
on Wednesdays.
At half past three I'd meet
Jim Morrison.
For four months
I'd pass Gertrude Stein
and Oscar Wilde
underneath
black marble and French saints.
147 communards
are hush
throughout the cemeteries
labyrinth
like bats that hang in silence.
School children
play I spy
as I sneak through
stone hatchways
and potted wildflowers.
Their owl-like gazes
leap past me
to angels gilded in green
crag.
Morrison meets
me in the sixth division
with star-eyed
beatniks
burning lighter fuel.
They toss half-burned
cigarettes
over a square
grave that's branded in
Greek.
"KATA TON AIMONA EAYTOY"
Is plated beneath
James Douglas Morrison.
"True to His Own Spirit"
decodes itself
in black ash
near visitors who
lament,
smoke,
and snap photographs.
Empty whiskey,
plastic daisies,
Twinkies,
dusted concert stubs,
cover his catacomb
like the warmth
he couldn't refuse.
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