Dead legends are italicized

Snowball is dead in the garden.
So is Marlene Dietrich,
bitched from the start.
Give us a moveable feast, a solemn owl;
death in the afternoon, hot coppery scents 
of short and happy ironic deaths--
moveable feasts of hot, happy dying
in tents and death wagons, in bullrings.
(Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!)
You will die like a dog for no good reason. 
 
"You know he hated women..."
"You know he blew his brains out.."

No icy queen was ever your first love
though she was beautiful, like a May fly. 
But fishing kept you warm, Joe and the boys
riding boats and barstools and waiting,
no old men and the blood-bought seas, 
just patterns of dust on butterfly wings.

Snowbirds and tourflies buzz on Sundays, 
lines-to-the-corner on Whitehead Street,
pilgrimages to the original typewriter,
the bloody Amazing! Original!
typewriter up the stairs.
Sure it's easy: open up your veins
and count the words.
Find the truest thing you know 
and just bleed out.
But it's all true at the end,
and love is a prickly fashionista, 
wickedness begun in innocence.
Swim in her pool and fish every day you can.
Bleed every day on Whitehead Street
and split your sides laughing at the bloody circus. 
                                                                                   
Step right up folks, and see the six-toed cats!  
See his last red cent, buried in the cement!
Don't miss the urinal from the original Sloppy Joe's!  
Pauline was sure mad when Papa brought that home!
Tips are always appreciated!

Snowball is dead in the garden.
So is Charlie Chaplin.
When you've shot one bird flying 
you've shot all birds flying. 
We're bitched from the start,
and laughing at the bloody circus.