For Michael Dorris Poem by r james sterzinger

no ends no means no justification
life had become a spider's web
folding and winding around itself

when the great writer's magic
dissolved with his life
he took drastic measures
to come to the story's end, his end

whether he was guilty for his crimes
or even what the crimes were didn't matter
he was cornered by the dark angel who
takes all matters in hand

they found him in a cheap motel room
then filled the papers with all the tawdry details that could be found
his books now are falling apart on library shelves
his art ends with an asterisk

(so we crucify the art with the artist)
every edge of life has its beauty
one wrong turn with the side-show man
will get you so pushed into the margins

where the pills the booze the noose and the oven
will make more sense than losing your soul
that you have poured into your painter's canvas
or between the words of your iambic pentameters

in this Plasticine world who is left
to judge us Michael
who is innocent enough
who is artist enough?

with so much nothing
being made up to be art..
this day I pray that your soul
will be saved your soul that lies

between old book pages
that are being weeded off the shelves
that are being forgotten
I run my finger down

the spine of your book
that lies next to the table
where I write this
wondering what you were thinking
on that last tour to Dartmouth.