Bowie || Korey Hurni

For the first time in a long time I’m listening 

to the radio – I am new to this

city and familiar with only my body – the DJs are still beat up

over the unearthing of jazzy Lazarus.

I am too.


I know the song too well to change

stations, would feel uneasy, which is to say

uncomfortable with myself to not hear it through, to hum it 

along these streets, yellow-tinted like a body bag 

at a bad art installation. 


The lights help everyone see, though it bleaches 

the night sky, the night sky trembles

in saturation, as though out of focus. The song trails

off in a wave of phase, 


and the DJ starts to give

commentary, but I think I already know

what he wants to say, what Lazarus already said

when he was a lady,

or maybe not. I turn it off. 

I’d like to think the DJ went beyond the grappling-

with-mortality spin, and said the only truth

we know of Bowie: that he was glamorous,

yes, his dying included. I am left again


with my new life, my old self, bundled

in expectation. It was like the first time it rained,

and all the locals complained

about how pitiful it was, how it wasn’t enough,

even though it had taken all the streets of San Jose. The mountains

for that week 

were green. 



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