I’m left to open up another blank document. I’ve scribbled starts to three-hundred stories, a hundred songs, outlines for a million inventions, maps for the thousand different directions I’m trying to take my life. Written on my legs in the holes of my jeans are notes to remind myself that I am hip-hop. Single words scratched onto napkins with the shitty pens of waitresses rub like gravel in the bottom of my pockets. Words catering to things the eyes have seen but know they will soon forget are tattooed in obscure places on my arms, between all the fluff and imagery. Even here we can find names of the friends I’ve known. As if I could forget, and yet still I can’t remember, anything.
Not even to be still.
Who were these three cowboys, us three? High on mushrooms from the airport and soft-white from the cell phone waiting lot, now at the strip-club peaking under the light blueberry lap-dance of another failed pharaoh. Making it rain lottery tickets, keeping the wind north. Who was this man with his head down working 16-hour days for SXSW, getting drunk off Antartica dreams and whiskey neats while scolding international rap acts for smoking to many cigarettes. Where did all the money go. I can ride this tandem bicycle all by myself, from the backseat. Preference settings, set to go. Reality is I’m slowing down.
Glassblowing, flame working, staring into the eyes of dogs.
Bartending, waiting, writing to live but not survive.
Texas, maintaining, lone star, record outlines.
Porch life, sunshine, swimming.
BBQ from picnic table to picnic table like high-fives.
At The Drive In, love life, dabs, surprises.
Shirt off, bus stops, uncle.
New house, bike, poker tables, mine.
Court house, piss, Mercury 52'
Boat money, tattoos, that Huck Finn boat money tattoo.
You.
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