Iapos;ve lost touch with my soul.
Where am I, really?
Did I ever think at age 10, in 10 years Iapos;d be here?
What did the breeze teach me back in Corpus?
What did my dying uncles really tell me in the Mexican moonlight?
Why canapos;t I climb this oily ladder?
These are the beginnings of many a starving artist, dreamer, and drifter.
People you meet in the rest stops and at the bus station.
Paper sacks and guitars.
Under sleepy skies, with a painted serenity of chartreuse.
Blue skies, moon pies, hot fries.
College kids sucking their parentsapos; tits for years.
Quasi-fresh straight-shooters semi-invading partial-memories.
Zipping through the clouds with a twinkle in your cheek.
Warm tears dripping into the jasmine, burns the garden green.
Feel our world shifting into one everlasting opium den, amongst the flickers of flint and the days of direction.
Perfect yourself, your mind, your direction, knowledge of routine, you are it.
Create envy, reap jealously, saturate in the moment, behind chunky frames and smooth audio.
Youapos;ve got paint on your those delicate hands of yours, darling.
The entire world marvels at a peek of sweet dreams.
Every color youapos;ve ever seen, every delicious taste youapos;ve ever tasted, every genuine smile thatapos;s ever snuck itself beneath your nose, Indian aromas drifting past the rooftops.
Smushing their cigarette butts underneath leather soles on the sidewalk in the summertime, the stale emptiness that haunted our lungs each night.
Tighten your cufflinks, and donapos;t forget to bow, Iapos;m expecting a good show from you.
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