Today is the kind of day to go out and commit some misdemeanors, hunker down under a railroad overpass and sip a cup of coffee with a little something in it, smoke some cigarettes and try to read the hazmat codes as the trains roll by. Sulphur dioxide, that’s a 1079 and good old benzine, that’s an eleven fourteen.
Ride off along the railroad tracks and across some posted land, sweating up a game trail hot-boxing in your gore-tex under a drizzling rain.
Today is the kind of day for laying up in a south Willamette valley bungalow weaning yourself off the dilaudid. Slowly moving broken bones and torn muscles and wondering what will ever replace the sweet ache of the body healing?
Put a little Smoky Robinson on and try to follow the tracks of those tears running down the faces of all of us: the poor, sorry, hopelessly grown. It is embarrassing to want it so bad, like air-balling three-pointers embarrassing to admit that yes, you really do just want one more day in your 10-year-old body with your ten-year old thoughts and trying- by the pure power of belief- to seriously stop growing up. Stop it in its tracks like a tank of benzine, failing inspection.
There’s nothing you can do man, and it’s going to be okay.