by David Bradford

Man think about that,
poor old
soupy-eyed James Dean.
Founding father
of the Breakfast Club.

I bet if that puppy killing kid
in the police department
waiting room
had just taken his goddamn coat,
Jimmy would still be alive.

Imagine James Dean
like Peter Faulk.
That fucks me up, man.
James Dean like
Colombo. All grime
and sterling earnest
when introduced,
cock-eyed TV star
of yesteryear
when featured.

Don’t get me wrong, I mean
I like Colombo. Pete Faulk too.
But James Dean
getting a lifetime
at the Emmys—

That’s too fucking much.

James Dean. Now there’s a young fucker
that mattered,
young or not.

Fuck Kurt Kobain.
Just another chump
in a Salvation Army sweater
from the J Peterman catalogue.

David Bradford
is a graduate of Concordia's creative writing program. He is the author of Little Death, published by WithWords in 2008. Bradford lives in a Berlin hipster commune. They don't even have to say irony.

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