(Um, so my book might not be done on time. It just might-not-be… possible. It’s my deadline. Nobody cares. But still. I’m Human.
With that said, here’s something to make it up. I mean, it could-still-happen, I’m just… tired. HA!)
New Rebels with New Causes
(re-mixed for portable A.H.K. taken from Visions of Michigan)-
Birds chirp and washing what’s left of my wearins’, and he’s got ta’ move on as-well.
This whole city is closing in on us, and after Dusty’s landlord gives him the boot, you know, the same post-graduate boot as I had already received, well we had us nowhere to go anymore.
Go home? Not men like us, and with that being the situation that road would be set out for in five or so days. The ship was being prepared. Oil was changed. Car was washed. Goodbyes and the final nights of yelling at this home of a town, a place that I came to as young boy and now, huh, well now I was turning in to a skinny dying man, and yeah, course I was a’ going with em’. I mean, well, I had nothing else better to do.
Go home? Home? This was the great damn recession. The middle class was dead. My parents lost their house. Home? Home? HA!
So in a couple of sunrises and sunsets I’m a’ sittin’ shotgun and running across this state of Michigan once again. Before it was different. It was a party. I had money. It was an adventure, and I guess it still is if you call it that, to get, well, by… but now, it’s about more than that, more than just seeing things and meeting bands and laughing with pretty girls that you hope will be sleeping next-to-you in the morning types of pretty girls; now, it’s about something else, about more than a youthful adventure. And what’s it about then? I don’t know. Leaving…
“Henry Henry! Put that there and, BE CAREFUL THAT’s a collectible!”
Man, and so-soon I’ll be a’ rolling out and around within them blue days, them mornings passed them farmer-markets and exit-ramps and wide-open apple-fields next to the roaring highway. The days of hands and smiles and riding along next to orchards and corn-stocks and scarecrows and John Dear Tractors makin’ em’ a clearing for seedlings next to billboards under messages of, damn, of my America, of, damn, of Michigan.
Guitars with new strings and shoes, well, the same ol’ falling apart shoes.
Goodbyes and lucks; many lucks were given to me. To do this and to that, where to go and who to talk to, and a full tank of gas after a few more plasma donations at the clinic, cashing my final check from the university office, and in just a’ few more turns of the clock I’ll be back on that speeding yellow concrete, that same ol potholed road passing towns under bridges with the lines of still-life and sleepin’ freight-trains and locomotives as the Amtrak sparks my pointing finger towards them’ tracks that stretch passed rivers passed them eyes of those prisoners on work-release picking up disposable Styrofoam coffee-cups with metal spoke rods.
Man oh man, huh, oh shit, and in just a few more nights of twiddling these fingers everything will just ta’ be smooth sailing under clouds under those stars making constellations that like the moles on my back when connected form the Big Dipper.
Eyes SHUT! Sleep BOY!
Couple a days and everything will be a’ jingling and a’ jangling some pocket change of the slot machine that’s really only my life, and hell ya man, just like I always knew, well soon I’ll just ta’ be the one that’s the mover and the shaker and why, why go, why now, why now go?
Because man, I have ta’.
And so…
I’m worried. I only have about a few hundo to my name. Shit man, no time to think about that. I got ta’ move, and so burning burning magic coal in my heart, soon and once again everythang’ and anythang’ will be a’ humming me right along to a traveling seasonal dream that sings me a ditty of love as I sail under those stars never getting me enough sleep, and what… what…“WHAT now Apostolo” I’m sure I’ll say a great many…many…many of times. And yeah, gots a feeling and really I know that feelin’ is probably true, that none of this going to work out. Snap…close…eyes, and none of them worries matter, because gone man. I’m gone. One more day and I’ll just ta’ be chewing on a toothpick before I fade away, to sleep.
I’m AWAKE! ALRIGHT MAN, and tick-tock less than a day now man, and boy oh boy it’s like Christmas Eve for me right now.
Less than twenty four hours. Back, going back, back out there, and I’ll tell ya’, well this time I’m the one, and I’m the writer that’s singing the song of my dreams. I’m making up the world as I see it. Humming my song. Penning the notes, of my Visions. I’m the man, MAN!
From here on out, well this is what goes down…
Adventures In American Writing 