i’m down in the low listening to ryan adams radio on pandora. holy it’s sad as a sack. and i’m sitting here squinting at this screen, handful of semi-sweet chocolate chips and seltzer water black cherry sizzling down…
didn’t i know it’d be a disaster? the long move down south with a wife he doesn’t love anymore and bills biting at his heels? there is no isolation from the people. they are everywhere. you can be nestled in the middle of nowhere, but you’ll eventually run into people.
cushion yourself with trees, grass, desert sand. a few miles out, there they will be. people. space. outer space – that’s an option. chances will be better for not running into people.
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and you? you’re out west, dodging gun carrying fifth graders and stick up men at the gas station parking lot. you’re dancing with trauma every other week while i’m sitting next to delusions of grandeur and their flowery smell…
i forget how i got here. don’t remember doing homework, taking tests…going to classes first year in college, feeding myself, doing laundry, sleeping…
i remember getting your funky letters with pictures of woody allen and bowie lyrics written on the back. to go back to 18. and see myself. how fragile. naive. trusting. dumb. how the hell did i get here…to 58?
to be continued….
