Travel Companion

 
valid instrument of destruction  
as per it's own  
invalidated soul of "me",  
drunk on death,  
drank with death,  
spilled in blood on some kid's death.  
 
Mourning and moaning for some for  
some impossible meaning to break  
forth with the morning sun,  
A deus ex machina to fit any soul  
battered heart beaten of it's own  
'goodness'  
 
What can it 'mean' when you hear for  
what it is I weep for? A cry to  
keep the phantazy devils at bay, make this  
 heart/soul bloodied flesh'pulp bearable  
again.  
Though by manys the measure of many  
clocks and calendars, it may be a bit late  
to rectify to justify the poses we though  
would do.  
 
Now all that happens is slide shows of  
ancient life in dearest Brooklyn, a childhood  
mostly cherished as quietly as was my demeanor.  
 
All the times you traveled with me there to visit blessed Stella,  
and those monuments that may have led the way  
to Prospect Park ( for baseball memories of '58- '63,)when there was  
precious little anything to grieve upon. We rode the  
trains, we rode the buses, went to "the city" (as Manhattan  
was referred to from the Brooklyn side). Washington Square, my impromptu concert.  A few jazz clubs, a few jazz friends met.  
Coney Island, penguins at the Aquarium, and always a lot of sustaining  
                              pizza plus bagels.  
 
Then, the final time, for Stella's funeral, and never back since then..  
 
Never will we walk side by side to anyplace ever again, dear one.  
So it is that our Life is little more than our Death, and we'll never know.  
 
And the tears roll again, as they have each day for over a year  
 
You were my great travel companion. Now the Life that was You  
 is gone Nothing more. Nothing less.  
 
(Damn, I should have been there for you more these last few years).  
 
 
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