Matt

I take the el.

Hoagie fuels my

long hair dreams.

 

Philly cheesesteak

melts into WIBG

and WHAT

 

but hippie dreams

and acid schemes

can trip, like Matt.

 

He quaked, like a

shattered window

behind shuttered blinds.

 

The Commune,

urban campground,

watched his restless river flow

up to the twelfth floor

where Matt stood.

 

Go with the flow

we all said. But

his river

jumped.

 

Years later I heard.

 

Was life too hard?

Stars maligned?

Medication wrong?

 

I'll never know.

 

We heads, sought inner peace

too groovy to know

or even think

 

that weed and we

might not

change

the world

today.