Is it possible that I could feel your presence?
after transitional transversed  mishaps
unfortunate twinklets of wasted stars
watered to wither in the dying greenery

Is it possible you are a hand width away?
just the other day on the promenade
watching the sails of the ships change course
tacking to that bountiful paradise of ours

Is it possible that we are counting mere days?
the indescribable pulsating of mere aliveness
running as the night draws into darkness
where whispers are above our withins

***** and ***** are
tragedies of Greek
proportion.
Take a man with
potential and then
give him a steady
dose of either (or both)
withdraw it,
and watch him
degenerate.

It’s not the *** act
or
the alcohol its self,
it’s the effect they
produce on
one’s psyche.
We will always
equate that which we
feel emotionally
with absolute
truth.

If one has given
himself completely
(with abandon)
to either pursuit,
when removed,
there will be
a vacuum
a gaping
hole that without an
act from the
gods,
will never be
filled

Wretched and rancid, Look what the
sand did; it slipped through the
hourglass way too soon.

Seems like yesterday, I was on
a wrought iron chair in my back yard,
preparing to jump into the
plastic swimming pool.
I was singing Leaving on a Jet-plane.
I understood the sadness, the good-bye.

48 years later, no plastic pool,
no wrought iron chair, not
even a song to sing.
But I ready myself for the
inevitable journey, that not
even time will stand still for.