parks outside
the Samarkand
in a stolen car,
his unsupported
neck and head bent
like a broken guitar
strung like sinews
lolling. Dead
strains evict
the psychedelic
notes squatting
in his brain.
Fourth floor,
his undergrad
rolls with the earth
and space of a place
where they picked
young when God asked.
Real bad, I need
Jimi real bad.
What the wind
doesn’t cry
is any name
she recognizes.
Jimi drives by
in a Cadillac
with no license plates.
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