My friends are dropping like flies,
and by dropping, I mean dying.
I mean no longer trying to
fly in a world that wanted
them grounded.
Perry drowned,
and Greg was
found on Highway 6 hit by a
minivan—***** in hand.
They say the best laid
plans of mice and men oft go
astray—that’s an understatement.
My life plays out like
a scene from  Dante’s Inferno.
Abandon all hope.
A month back, Kristin dies from
too much dope.
Tibbs goes out from a  
stroke
or some kind of strange brain
malfunction.
I did C.P.R. at the
great wall,
the junction where
the drunks drink and the
dreamers scheme.
It doesn’t work—he goes into a coma.
No more roaming the streets with
my Sancho,
no more
beating the heat with
stolen wine in the  
summer slick shade by
the river,
trying to save the
last sliver of our  
humanity—only to walk head
long into a ****** up
destiny.
Providence can be a
punk *** ***** when it
wants to be.
See,
I’m not fooled by
life’s strong arm tactics,
one day my friends are fine;
the next,
they’re in caskets—and I’ll  
be a basket case when it’s
all said and done.
****
standing still and
****  
the sun.
**** the
moon and the stars
and the ******
and the bars.
****
This silly world
I’m done.