I’ve got mail that you can’t open/not with a boxcutter, a knife, or permission/You can’t read the address, it’s written in German/I know you failed that shit when we were freshmen, no sweating/Your knowledge of my mail is post office treason/mental chainmail storage protects me from reasoning.
Don't throw the baby out with the bong water/I've smoked the green deth that this cold campus offers / I built a utopia with recycled matchboxes/and scoffed at detractors while fucking up milestones/I've never been honest with tom, dick, or harry/my dog's getting old and my brain turned all scary/The cylinders fire they run at capacity/life's not for me, you'll find me deep in the countryside
“Guns, dogs, knives, food seeds, a small television, an AM/FM radio, a bunch of books, a bicycle, bicycle, bicycle, a tape recorder, a coffeemaker, seventeen notebooks, seventy pens, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a lighter, and one butt for the apocalypse.”
On the first trip back, i'd grab another backpack and a gameboy (because i like screens more than i'd care to admit) and a small guitar (to pen little ditties dedicated to the dreamers back home) and on the second trip back, i'd find you yell this at you for the last time:
"You were good to me in so many ways, but I failed you with squandered talent, lack of motivation, a habit of avoiding every little thing that scared the shit out of me, until one day, when I'll be forced to confront all three by confronting you two and to deal with the goings-on of life that keep me up at night - arriving at answers as fast as the comfortable yet rattly stolen buggy i rode in on. Emailing health services like 'how early do you guys open?' Emailing god like 'hey, my brain's doing the thing again' Talking it up because i'm never sure if i'm being honest with you, or me, or you. Love, me"
As I go for the John Wayne look, riding off into the sunset, the irony of a gung-ho cowboy with a deth wish and a revolver looking to help (for help, from help, whatever) rears its funny head and I'm off. I’ll go home to a waterbed if it rains because I technically never got my carpenter’s license. If I did I'd yell “No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man.” And you'd punch me thrice, and I'd take it thrice.
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