the missing accomplice

the missing accomplice

“my friend kevin told me to give you these,” i said.

“i know kevin!” scott said abruptly, an unanswerable ass working in a laundromat

kevin was an artist and skate punk

and my housemate and friend

he was illustrating my short stories

we once shared a 12-foot by 10-foot room

in a rooming house for months

kevin drew and i wrote

and we went to the tavern at night

where he laughed

at the whores i got myself tangled up with

kevin had the personality and talent

to be whatever he wanted

he had brains and he didn’t believe in anything

he skated the east side at night

and got to know the skaters and cops

kevin dumped the

sexy

smart

shy

funny

blonde quickly

for an

obnoxious

fat

showboater from rhode island school of design

who asked me

one morning as i was headed

to take a piss

“what are your views on art?”

i wondered if kevin was afraid of love

he hung around with the possessive scott kid

and had less to do with me

he played pinball at the laundromat

where he got a job

and stopped drawing

and posted the high score on adam’s family

when i became very sick

kevin avoided me

and bought a plane ticket

to Hawaii

he later said “i was afraid of you”

kevin moved back to san francisco

and got a job at wells fargo bank

he was promoted and promoted

after playing horse shoes with the vice president at a company picnic

and married a rich chick

with a name as pretentious as the last one

and moved into her house on portrero hill

i saw our failing as my fault

i don’t know why

but maybe he changed too much

or wasn’t who he was yet

or wanted to be

perhaps he had been rebelling

against the resistance

he faced when trying

to sell out

and now is

(or is he?)

love is the accomplice of art

and maybe i mistook him for an artist

when his truth was his money beat soul