Together, for years,
we played music around life.
Now we play for death.

He and I were friends.
Now life has flipped pages,
and our friendship ends.

Brothers never were
as close as we two can be,
sharing this whisky.

"All I did was die,"
was what Kerouac once wrote.
I still believe him.

Hot winds from summer,
humid breezes in the day,
Atlantic heat wave.

Castaway feeling,
my bedroom is my island.
No rescue in sight.

The open window
is the only escape route
for this air borne thought.

My travel things sit
waiting to feel destiny,
and the road to hit.

Beer, trickles down cold
waiting to be swallowed. I’m
intoxicated.