In Memory of Kurt Cobain

You paid a man to rub me out

and said it was a suicide.

Enough people believed your take–

the press, police, your growing

avalanche of fans–that you could

get away with murder,

along with millions of dollars

I didn’t care for anyway

and the rights to all my songs.

No surprise that you should

share a birthday with O.J.

You said later in an interview

you wished you’d never married me.

I’d say the feeling was mutual

if I weren’t speechless

from twenty years of being dead.

I guess my understated revenge,

a grudging substitute for justice,

is that you’re already a has-been;

losing all that glamor must feel

worse than life in the slammer.

No wonder you chose to call

your first album with Hole

Live Through This.

At least one of us did.