On Andy Warhol

visited where he used to live (and got shot by a feminist in '68) which has now been turned into a small public park. Felt his vibes when I went there, so I wrote a poem.

231 47th street

Peace endures here.
The building is gone,
then again, so is that phase of New York.
An old man sits on a park bench nearby,
passing on stories
A young man listens
while others contemplate an artificial waterfall,
searching there for wisdom.
I wonder if anyone knows what happened,
and if they did, would they care?
Thankfully, HER memory does not remain.
What is left is HIS spirit
as it was in the beginning