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.