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for the late elliott smith

you once played, in a small room
out in central square
with steve westfield,
lou barlow, and some other
unknown
perched, like a child, on a chair
made of plastic, you crouched
and downed back beer after beer
out of apparant, sheer terror,
with a yamaha guitar and greased
black hair--
(and a ferdinand taurus tattoo)
you brought calm to the clamour, grace to the graceless and
moved us to sighs, to shed tears,
to act out, to save up money
and purchase like instruments
(we'd later cover in saline, in mucus
while playing covers of your songs, in deafening irony, they'd never again be heard again live)
so there it is, the biggest lie,
that the pain was so great it was better to die such a miserly death at 34-- so the white lady did love you more...