Friday, October 16, 2009

My Friend

The sweet wine,
neck of the bottle between
my fingers, crystals
of ice, slowly dying
circles below my wrist,

A drowsy morning night,
coming to its end,
Jimi Hendrix
bleeds in and out behind me,
he is dying, like the ice
he is always dying,

And you are there,
almost my friend
There, here, gone
to war, to fighting,
to dying,

I drift in and out of consciousness,
his guitar calling me back
for another sip, the warm morning light
acting a play performed by swirling
beads of water,
when the night begins
it is already at its end,

Jimi Hendrix,
my friend.

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