Love Letter to Iggy Pop

by Jefferson Hansen

             written while listening to “The Passenger”

Fuck you,

Iggy.

Where are you a passenger?

In a limousine?

You’re a rich, rock star.

You ride in such things.

Then get all angsty

and alienated about

it.

Me, I’m never a passenger.

I never feel like I see things made “for you and me.”

I drive in that rusted

heap in that

oily parking lot

out my window.

I write this on an envelope.

I use computers at

the library

which I take the bus

to because I cannot afford

to pay for parking there.

Oh, I know the apocryhon.

That David Bowie found

you toothless and homeless in

L.A.—or something like that.

I know you suffered.

You probably still do, in some ways.

But you ain’t toothless

or homeless, now.

You’re rich.

And being angsty.

And alienated.

So,

fuck you, Iggy.

Love,

            the fictional construct that wrote this poem

                        With Sincere Love and Admiration for All You Do, You Fellow Midwestern

                                         Factory-Town Boy,

                                                Jefferson Hansen, author