he stood still as his friend lifted the rifle

he stood still as his wife refused to hammer the nails

he lay still, naked and alone as the flames surrounded him

a massive ball of entwined train tracks and desolate environmental hell

he sat still and confessed his affair, love in ohio, his wife unaware

he stood still, knife to the interviewer’s throat, before destroying everything in sight

he had a final moment as the engine quit and the blimp kept circling

he died five days before it was premiered

quit as a professor after a game of russian roulette

lying under a plane of glass, unwilling to break his silence, until they tried to give him sustenance and then a hammer through the clockface

drinking bourbon and screaming for them all to get out

soft spoken and not afraid to paddle away, where is Chris, no matter what you were part of the performance

the second the engine cut out and the blimp kept sailing, the moment of art

five days later he would be dead, the cancer the final performance piece in a long line of pieces, of finding peace in pieces

the rifle fired and he stood in shock

the nails pierced his hands to the roof of the car, engine roaring and hoping it would explode

the giant wheel turning and turning, scary and larger than life

the metropolis of cars

launching matches at his naked wife

locked inside his locker for five days, two by two and crouched inside even if no one knew he was there

his lamps a symbol of the city

he died five days before his final exhibit and only a few knew he was dying

his burden was his art, our burden is remembrance

minimal and grandiose, mescaline and a semi truck, determined to bring death to death valley

van gogh, michaelangelo, picasso, da vinci and burden

sculptor, performer, genius and artist, dead five days before his blimp took flight, his cancer his final show, peace in pieces, brilliant and unforseen

mARTyr