Standing Upon William S. Burroughs' Grave

Bellefontaine,
The good fountain,
The beautiful fountain,
Where important personage
Lie in repose,
Where souls rise up in fountains of immortal spirit
To the glory of their worldly presence,

Belle obélisque,
White marble crumbling stones,
Crumbling mortuary,
Crumbling death,
Decaying families:
Anheuser and Busch,
General Clark buried facing North,
By the lake
The towering obelisk of William Burroughs,
Inventor of the adding machine,
The grandson lying next,
A besmudged orange traffic cone
Covers a four inch by four inch marker,
Scratched with a rock:
Wm. Burro - - -

No alcohol allowed in Bellefontaine
So no annual black-cloaked figure
Leaving a bottle of cognac as with Poe,
No firearms
No loitering
No naked lunches
No beatniks
Only sacred ground
Dedicated to crumbling, decaying families
Of corpses,

Burroughs just lies there,
Yage vine entwined heroin-eyed
Prince of Prose,
Beneath the orange traffic cone of sorrow,
Inglorious rogue of St. Louis,
Hypodermic obelisk of America,
Syringe of Tangier,
Driving the last spike into the railroad arm of death.