LAX, 10:15 p.m.
Back then, Alexander would get wasted
And play Journey on Sly Stone’s piano—
(After(-h)ours, Warner Bros. Archives’ basement)—
And say, “You’re The One, you know…” We had no
Clue we’d (n)ever meet again, or make it;
He played each night before I had to go—
“Let’s face it: Love doesn’t wait, it races.”
So, our revolution spun to its end—
I’ve only (t)his letter I’ll never (s)end,
JFK, 6:30 a.m.
About how they were right (they often are):
No one ever finds it, only tastes it—
Happiness, Success; any beat the heart
Pulses, Reality soon de-basses.
“Alex,” I sighed, “Don’t Stop.” Mem’ries die hard;
Harder, still, were the looks on their faces—
Eight-by-ten glossy, lossless-quality
Traces of the voices whose mouths faced us,
Who drank our Dreams in Burbank for th’Ages.