love is like a wrecking ball

it's hard to come home and be idle.
hard to sit in silence with yourself.
the walls are echoing his words
there are scraps of paper left behind
there are voice mails on the phone
there are mixed feelings
apprehension
doubt
something that is missed, but in it's current incarnation, loathed.

so i've been avoiding home. i should know better.
and i do.
but i do it anyway. cause i'm old enough to make my
own decisions, and hard-headed as a kid enough to knowingly make
the wrong ones.

shit. i've been mostly good most my life.
i figure i'm entitled to a period of fucking up.
and even my version of fucking up is pretty mild.
pretty average and docile.
not disastrous or intimidating other than
drinking too much, sleeping too late, and
finding myself in strange places in an
alice and wonderland sort of way

played a show with my friend, guitarist Gary Lucas.
i had roughly intended on going back home after
the show and writing. but the magic wand of beer
and whiskey touched my lips, and once their powers
had awoken, i felt compelled to partake in a saturday
night out in manhattan. hell... everyone is just so
young, thin, and beautiful!
aren't we supposed to go out and do things young
attractive people do? isn't that our role to play?
before we get old and die. there's a party on every
corner and in every refinished unknown basement.
a drink to be poured and a body to make the most of.

after an evening of such, lights and motion become
beautiful stimuli. you're a kid in the carnival parade,
the colors and possibilities endless, the smells are
all sweet, and the sounds are full of joy. your heads
spinning in this grand ball, and you're content as
can be watching it all pass around.





it's a pleasant enough distraction for now.