Some called it a continuation
others recreating a mythology.
To us it was just the weekend.

Where can you turn when
you don’t want what you’re
given? Loud was alive.
As we stumbled to safety,
cold world, hearts on fire
but mostly banal,
booze and boredom.

Mischief marks the hours.
Without time we wistfully want.
“We’re all fucked,” is the
essence of unity. Nobody knows
trouble, sorrow, symptoms, solution
but we know one another.

Buck fifty buys a case of
cheap swill, crushed pills
and quick thrills I can still
find in a rocket fueled
pick slide.

We separated. Split.
Seams seem to pop into scenes.
We’d seen more, some stood still,
others chased versions,
lack the vision. Some we lost,
misstepped, misspent
uncertainties, insecurities, and
perhaps
they were the wise ones.

Loved ones lie lost
in cells or cold ground and
who am I to accuse? I refuse
as I always have. Crack
another beer and always
wish you well.