It’s true. Dead sells.
Dead sells because we, the people, are dabblers,
poseurs and procrastinators.
Dead sells because we, the people, request an
explanation for or at least a probing, vivid, graphic
exploration of tragedy.
Dead sells because we, the people, demand prophecy.
Dead sells because we, the people, are rubberneckers
and death is life’s version of a 160 car pileup on the
interstate.
Dead sells because we, the people, need to take what
was and postulate a “what if…” future.
Dead sells because it is a pinch of mystery in the
simple, the cliche, the everyday mundane stew.
Dead sells because we, the people, need relics,
talismans and charms.
Dead sells because there will be no more
new releases, no more cutting edge projects,
no more songs, no more words, no more images,
no more perfect explorations of
emptiness
phone booths or
cigarette stained fingertips,
no more anything.
By necessity we must reach for what was.
It’s true. Dead sells.
Ask Van Gogh.
THE MIND ATTIC 