A bottle of half-drunk
Miller beer sits on the dresser,
its tainted, yellow-orange light
motionless.
I pop the cap off another glass
bottle of frothy beer.
The humped-over refrigerator hums
to the tune of Bowie's ballad
flowing throughout the studio apartment.
I tilt the beer skyward,
recalling the last time I savored
a sweating bottle.
In '78 the forbidden taste trickled
into my adolescent belly.
Seven beers that summer day
nearly knocked me out.
What happened to those Grandview
(Missouri) days,
when I filled my hours with Bowie's wisdom,
waiting for someone like Him.
"We can be Heroes," he croons.
"Time and again I tell myself
I'll stay clean tonight."
I recall how my brother stashed
uppers and 'ludes in the dresser drawer
and the pot we smoked
until the room became a blur.
I take another mouthful of beer,
starting at fermented milk on the counter.
Bowie echoes, "Still don't know
what I was looking for.
Time was running wild,
a million dead-end streets."
All I ever wanted was a Bowie song
tucked away in my memory,
and I never look back.

As I look out Hollywood Boulevard,
I see someone standing
in the shadows,
and catch a glimpse of dull eyes
set beneath a scarred face.
Distinguishable by a street light,
his bleached blond hair
with patches of orange
and pink is illuminated.
A safety pin protrudes from
the side of his lip.
A holey T-shirt with a picture
of the Thin White Duke covers
his small frame.
Tight lurex pants stretch across
underdeveloped legs.
Slowly, he pulls a cigarette
from his jacket.
Placing it between thin, dry lips,
he lights it with shaky hands.
The last I see of him is his spiked
heels kissing the pavement,
as he disappears into the corners
of the shadows.

It's another sour day
and I need someone to understand
my thoughts.
Suddenly, I catch
charismatic eyes staring
from a worn album cover.
Bowie speaks within,
and I slowly believe.