Monday, September 25, 2006

Something in the air

I wait until the 4am still.
When the guard dogs themselves twitch and sniff and their paws run through fields of dreams.
When their masters and their apprentices sing nasal throaty tunes.
When the wives lie in sweat of a thousand guilty thoughts.

This ain't the town for me.

But I take one last look all the same. Then...

I flick the butt still burning into the puddle of fuel I have created by the door. And the dancing tongue orange yellow licks the roof and the walls and the floor and my pitstop burns ever so silently in a no-man desert town.

I start to walk toward the East and sing a song a troubadour once sang.

It's a restless hungry feeling
That don't mean no one no good,
When ev'rything I'm a-sayin'
You can say it just as good.
You're right from your side,
I'm right from mine.
We're both just one too many mornings
An' a thousand miles behind.

And here we go,

the only time I ever feel at home, is when I'm back on that never ending road.


A comprehensive list of the advice I have been given in the past two weeks:

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.

and then this morning:

Just tell everyone to fuck themselves.

And on that ten cent piece of wisdom, my outlook does a U-Turn and I laugh a simple, uncomplicated laugh.


The wind is at my back, which helps. And the rising sun ahead is an easy reference point.

It says, warmth here boy, the real McCoy, triple distilled, just keep on walking. Come toward these outstretched arms, these rays, this life. And I will rise before you and show you the way.

I spit tabacco from between my lips.

It's a gesture of defiance, a fuck you to melodrama, my favourite drop.

And as times shifts from the then to the now, and the desert is a city and in my ears another tune, the load seems lighter and intensity two steps behind.

Come gather round people, wherever you roam...

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