For Justin | The New Republic

1969-2015

It’s a poem about Justin Chin.
It’s not about me.
I hate having to write this.
I wish I could talk to him instead.

It’s not about me:
I reread Justin.
I wish I could talk to him; instead,
I’m sitting on Valencia Street.

I reread Justin.
“Squalor meets luxury.”
I’m sitting on Valencia Street,
where we drank tea.

Misery meets luxury:
now there is a retail concept
where we drank tea.
A notion, an idea…

NOW There is a retail concept.

A dose of our own medicine,
a notion, an idea—
I would love to hear his withering take.

A dose of our own medicine?
“Grief is accurate. Grief is not accurate.”
I’d love to hear his withering realization
on a billion dollar drug.

The grief is correct. Grief is not exact
enough to try to measure a man
on a billion dollar drug…
which is the old one, with a new patent.

Enough. To try to measure a man,

so generous, with a new project—
which is the old one, with a new patent—
is poor, a memory headache.

He was so generous with a new release.
It’s a poem about Justin Chin.
Poetry could not save him; that will never be possible.
I hate having to write this.