in a floating bottle

Blackstar
book of death
fading eyesight
and out of breath;
dreaming at night
while sipping tea;
solitary visions
lost at sea;
in a floating bottle
a yellowed note,
far from the waterfront,
where i once wrote
an off-broadway play
as a parlor game
for the wildly odd
and strangely tame.

i'm taking the family keys

saw my mom

sipping gin

she tried to stand

but couldn't win

out on the floor

she blocked the front door

and it seemed so sad

and then my dad

had his usual fit

when he took another hit

and it all became a mess

so i tried to guess

which way outa town

excuse me, please

i'm taking

the family keys

playing the radio

Billy Joel style

mile after mile

totally top down
beyond the town

volume way high
torching the sky

and the starry night

kept my head right

at ninety five

naturally alive

head lights searching for a destination

one that couldn't be found

driving around and around

thinking of how

i could justify throwing in the towel

when i had dear friends

to change my tires

and put out any emotional fires

with all eyes toward the front

pedal to the floor

listening to the steady engine roar

feeling the breeze

excuse me, please

i'm taking
the family keys
playing the radio
Billy Joel style
mile after mile.

i'm pretty sure it's mine

well, i went to the laundromat
looking for my old Beach Boys hat
and a little bit of this
and a little of that
and in the far right corner on the hardwood floor
i saw a group of lost boys and just one more:
an old friend sat sitting by the dusty coin machine
trying to remember his recent midnight dream
swaying steadily on a cheap three-legged seat
waiting for a passing washer woman to meet
when he asked me how my life has been:
i saw he was wearing my favorite hat underneath his toothy grin;
ah yes, I didn't have to guess,
and thought what did he know about the fateful cycles of life?
do they spin dry from the first husband to the last wife?
and is anything ever truly lint free?
does anybody fold their dirty laundry under the weeping willow tree?
well, in the village square
i no longer know any living person there
and in my Ford truck when the radio blows
i remember all the old vaudeville comedy shows
and at half past five
i'm usually ticking but barely alive
thinking of a quarter buying a pack of menthol cigarettes
and that's about as happy as this young man gets
heading down the road inside my head
dreaming of my cozy unmade bed,
carrying a pocket full of memories and a couple of bucks
thinking, ah, what the hell, aw shucks!
so, crazy as it sounds, I replied to the man that life has been steady and fine
and thanks for the hat because i'm pretty sure it's mine.