David
Bowie rain ghosts are beating down the pavement in Lyndhurst, Ohio.
Time
to pack another bowl and salute all the humans who have spun off this mortal
coil.
I
want to open my mouth, tilt my head back and taste David Bowie on the tip of my
redolent tongue.
This
isn’t about star fucking a space oddity or getting high on someone else’s stardust.
I just miss the shit out of him.
David
Bowie rain ghosts scuttle across the black pavement like glass spiders from
Mars.
Your
music exists inside of me like a thermometer taking my psyche’s temperature.
You’re
red, white and blue like no paid political actor will ever be and you never
sold us a bill of goods or pretended to be someone you’re not.
Your
authenticity is the elephant in the room everyone is wary to get accustomed to because
no one wants to visit the elephant graveyard this soon.
Time
to pack another bowl and imagine what it would have been like to run with you
when we were both Young Americans.
Charles Cicirella
2/3/16
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