Deep South

The light
a din haze
of orange
over a Crown Royal blurr.
It hadn't all been
this good.
The Southern music
lay awaiting the trip.
He hadn't wrote in weeks
nearly a month
since paper met pen.
Hoping to bring word to life
in Jacksonville.
A long drive through
the Deep South.
It was what he needed,
it would be medicinal


At the top of the cliff
the sign read
"Suicide Louie"
It wasn't the handle he had chosen,
yet it had stuck to him
like
a preacher at
a
Boy Scout meet.


Candles burned
in memory,
as he drank Tequila
in Hell.
In Hell
there was no heartburn,
no heartache'
no one to remind you of
anything


For he had become
"Suicide Louie:"
and that would
explain it all.


He left a black
skid mark
on
the
hardtop
of life.


Something to be remembered by.