Nine words, eleven years

3.26.10 1:13AM

The first few sips of Amaretto, getting to the words, getting away from having them in my head, a thousand lines to start with, a million things to say, nothing to write about but everything that I feel that I can’t write about anymore…

I decide to listen to music. Plug in my MP3 player to my tiny speakers, and of all things put on ‘TheTop’ by The Cure, which instantly takes me back to when it first came out – living in Encinitas, working at The Pannikin, then to other memories from that time so much time ago – wanting to go on the march across America but not being able to afford my own insurance, my old suede leather coat, beat up beautifully and too big for be – my camo pants dyed purple and black cherry hair, always black cherry. So many more things from that time… so long ago, when the world was wide open and waiting for me. So long ago, before…


Before I knew for certain how little time I had for bullshit, for small talk and small people, for anything less than the beauty in everything, for as much honesty as possible beginning with me – but gods, it took me years and years to realize what the most important thing was, and it’s not trying to make them happy.

Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m writing. I’m just writing, the first words put down in my new motor-home on the first night, so much to say and I want to say everything and I can’t say anything and I don’t know where to start because everything is in the middle and nine words eleven years ago changed everything back…

The barrel wasn’t cold. I sat there for only a few minutes looking at it – my Colt Cobra .38. Never such a profound void of everything, all I would be doing is pulling the plug on someone already dead… hammer back, the barrel pressed against the top of my mouth, hollow points, pressure on the trigger, just a tiny bit more and then (what if tomorrow is just a little bit better) nine words eleven years ago and in all the shitty today’s since then,

Tomorrow always has been.


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