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it’s a bit like jumpin’ ship,      ain’t it? there ain’t a bone in your bodyachin’ *for* the drink,but here we arestandin’ on railprayin’ the wake ain’t hidin’ danger. but it ain’t like we’re strangerto fixin’ problems,‘n sometimes you                                 jump.

For five years now,it’s been “I don’t know”in staccato refrain. well like G.R. Martin says,“Winter is coming”‘n I ain’t for facin’ the cold alone. Five years,I been sayin’ the “I don’t know”s,and five years since I’ve had any ideas,but the bridges are icing median first,and the frost is gnawingat the snowmelt green lawns,and that Mississippi’s …

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there’s no vigil you can stand,that will make this any easier. leave that insomniac post,and get what you really need. there’s a sunset tinged road in your future,you can taste it.nothing left,nothing left to worry about.                            morning will come.                           sunrise is sure.                           build from that.

let that spring slide back, kid. unwind. ease that tension. you         you are strong.         you are skilled.         you are better         than any problem.                                             this isn’t it.

modest mouse ‘n desert airmouth dry, probably the chips,bags strewn ‘cross the backseat,shoes off, hand out the window.Just South of Dawn.

.                           darling,                          it’s been so                          long since                          you’ve slept. come to bed. whateverit is,it can wait.

.                              it’s been a heavy sort ‘a day kid. there ain’t no denyin’ that,not tryin’,not even thinkin’. but you got more stubborn in you than that.back straight,foot in line.                             {there are places to go,}/things you have to see. long windin’ roads to go down.

One of my favorite poems,is taped to the refridgerator door–going in lushious lines about some plum. this poem,isn’t like that. I never told you,           but I thought about loving you once.           rolled the fantasy in my mouth           tasted the idea for days. still hadn’t given up the thought. but,this poem,isn’t like that,it isn’t about that. …

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you ever feel like you’re only alive when you’re running,like everything else is waiting,waiting for this? yeah,me either…

i promised to make you something,anything.             but i’ve been enthralled with the void,            how it changes everything. and there’s so much…too much.       the bend of the choas,      drawing switch-back channels. hardly sure of anything. much less how to make you something,anything,worth your time.