On Friday invisible
I heard you piss on time.

That inevitable
push at the end,

a dribble threatening an
arching, aching gush.

The world says
all in good time,

but you piss harder,
laugh at cockeyed cows

in your Colorado, that rain-song
of wheaten thunder.

That time, what was it
Chardonnay with magic mushrooms?

Too old to be foolish,
too young to be eccentric,

your fingers burnt
breaking welded bonds.

Marilyn Monroe is dead Jim.
We are not far behind.