King of Los Angeles

You could often see King roaming the streets
of Los Angeles during the day
and taking up residence in one of its bars
during the evening. His shaggy beard
hid his face well and grew
up to his eyebrows. He didn't really have
an apartment-
he mainly crashed on couches when he could.
His backpack held almost all
of his belongings. He didn't feel too bad
about it. He was out here and he had made
a go at it, had tried his damn best
at being in a band, at singing his fucking
head off about his life, his drinking,
the women he fucked, the women
he loved, the women and friends
who eventually grew to see through
the shit and moved on.
He was a nice guy-
it was hard to argue that he wasn't,
he just fucked up a lot.
Whenever I would see him
he was usually drunk
or on his way to getting drunk.
He was always coming and going.
I stopped paying attention to his whereabouts
because honestly
I had my own shit to worry about.
I hear he's still in town,
still singing, still drinking,
still fucking
things up on accident
and on purpose.
I can't encroach on his dreams
and methods,
I barely know what mine are
or if I even know what the hell
I am doing. Chances are
the next time I see him
I'll pull out my flask
of cheap whiskey
and offer him a long pull
on the only burn that seems
to pull us back from the darkness.