Where is he?

He could be anywhere; buskin’ in London
or drawing night time stars from his hair.
He could be free floating
in a bottle of whiskey
or riding the tides off the Costa Del Mar.
Perhaps he’s out back trimming the lawn
or up in the attic, preparing the roll that will stone him.
He could be writing a masterpiece in his bedroom
or astride a piece of natural art in another's; eyes aglow with the pleasure.
He could be feathering a chicken in a rural diner
or actively polluting a mid-city river.
Maybe he's dying in a backstreet gutter
or punishing himself for the death of his mother, or walking through Pines to ease the pain of a lonely Summer.
He could be out for the count in an excuse for a gym or Himalaya trekking in search for the child within.
He could be leaning against a lamppost in Cyprus;
waiting for a lover he has typecast as another fling.
Perhaps he’s fixing an engine on a desert road or unearthing the Wild West for his worth in gold.
His eyes could be bloodshot as he awakes in the park or black and blue in the back of an ambulance.
He could be going home, or away, wishing to be alone forever.
He could be surrounded by new matter and bone.
He could be done with everyone.
He could be gone forever.