By
Scott Thomas Outlar
A River without End
Dad would often say,
“It’s water under the bridge,”
whenever I’d relay
my latest mistake.
He never focused
on the blunders,
but instead kept building me up
to hopefully do better
in the future.
He would say
that if you’re heading
in the wrong direction
you can always
redirect your course.
“That’s the great thing
about the letters ‘re’.”
It’s been over two years now
since the last time we spoke
before he passed away.
I’d give anything
to ‘re’establish communication,
but it just isn’t in the cards,
and I’m afraid such a hand
will never be
water under the bridge.
The Good Old Days
We always rode
the late night trains
or walked
by moonlight
to the next hit
in the distance
Star dust fever
was an addiction
Salivating tongues
licked the universal flux
and synchronicity
was as common
as the sun
rising each morning
We huddled close
to the junkies
or kissed the streets
and the golden feet
of homeless gurus
singing silent stories
long forgotten
by civilization
Central heating
was our savior
and we slept like babies
medicated with a pacifier of gin
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