fumble for poetry instead of jargonese.
Put down spreadsheets and learn again to dream.
A switch from traffic:
and a sense of what’s been lost-
to murmuring pines beneath a cloak of soft green moss.
The year was 1989 and I was THERE around the fire!
Pickups full of coolers and bicycle tires.
Don’t get pulled over in Georgia.
See you there tomorrow night.
Do you remember that girl in 94 who’s sweater was so tight?
Single Malt– McCallans, Oban, or Lagavulin? Something to warm the tongue and wrap some lies in truth and spin them.
Never the same Indians, but always the same tribe,
we roam the south in early fall in search of magic times.
Cheaha, then Pigeon, off to Pisgah, back to Pigeon,
it doesn’t really matter when the truck comes you just get in-
But I don’t have any money. Got to work. My girl won’t let me.
Got you covered. Quit your job. Bring her along if she’s not whiny.
Oh my God it’s snowing! Holy shit it’s fucking hot! I can’t believe that it’s still raining, and I can’t believe it’s not.
Hambone’s van blew up, and Aza’s stranded in a bug,
He’s somewhere north of Macon so I’m sure he will show up.
Shmelt it! Spark it! Burn it up!
The fire’s not a toy, but you know-
boys will be boys.
Pick up every single bottle cap, grit butt, and flat tire
scatter every single rock and douse the glowing ashes of the fire.
Don’t disrespect the hunters, leave your antler hat at home,
We might be back here next year or we may
I’ll hold a tent space for you, Juancho