This stream-of-consciousness piece was written after hearing about the death of guitar great, Johnny Winter.

I’m saying the poem isn’t about Winter’s life or death, because I don’t think I can talk about it. I met him as a fan, but feel like I knew him as a friend. That said, it is about him. And me. And you. And you.

I took the sad phrase, “he died alone in a hotel room,” and threw it down the basement stairs in my head. It bounced into whatever else was piled on the steps.

I heard things shatter. It’s a pretty cluttered place. I’m a mental hoarder. When the noises stopped, I picked up the thing at the bottom of the steps and examined it.

The poem has a twenty-two syllable structure (5 / 7 /5 /5). Why? Twenty-one syllables were not enough. Twenty-three syllable poems are stupid.

–  –  –  –

Who Chooses to Die Alone in a Hotel Room?

My favorite travel death:
In crowed hotel lobbies
At buffets with friends
Smothered by family

. . .

Who chooses to die
Alone in a hotel room
Water glass left rings
On the one night stand

. . .

Wallet next to keys
Pile of pocket change for snacks
Underwear inside out
Pulled down and expired

. . .

Hung around one foot
Firmly planted in this world
A lover waiting
Around the corner

. . .

Who chooses to live
Full lives, exotic travel
Never in one place
Never long enough

. . .

Never fully meant
Stretched out naked eyes resting
This life we lay bare
Nothing personal

. . .

I wish you were not
Who you wanted to become 
Unhinged and lonely
Unplugged fully charged

. . .

Our lives on world’s stage
Firmly planted in this world
Another waiting
Around the corner

. . .

You knew who you are
Alone in a hotel room
Timely death ticking
No wake up. Alarm.

. . .

No longer disturbed
Stepping off the balcony
Curtains blown away
Smothered by the love

–  –  –  –