III. Winter Again

[thisnewday]

Now, it's winter again. It's cold as hell and my whole body aches. And it's been years since I moved back north and raised my family and sold off my tools. But I sometimes think about one last trip, most likely taken on a Greyhound bus this time.

And when I think of that, I'm sometimes able to convince myself that all I'd need, to make it work, is that singular moment when you look out the window and, instead of wind-whipped trees and driven snow, there's the sight of Palm trees bending, ever so slightly, in an ocean breeze...

Comments

[amandagayle.livejournal.com]

do you feel like you've exchanged a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage too?

don't take a greyhound. take the amtrak.

train love.

then send me post cards.

[olbuksings.livejournal.com]

yes, definitely. or, as morrison has it in "unhappy girl," "locked in a prison of your own devise." then he sets about dispensing advice from behind his rock star personae.

sometimes it's better that we don't know the lyrics. they're so often and so badly flawed, even from a genius like morrison. who, ironically enough, died in paris trying to be the pure poet.

i'm sure all the stoners figured he could've done worse than be buried in paris with edith piaf. then his parents dug him up and brought him home. "alas, poor yorrick!"

but it makes you wonder why we worship those who live at the edge. and attach special reverence to the lives that slip over it.

what's really out there that emily dickenson didn't see from her cottage window? or was she really sitting there sparkin' a joint while she wrote that astonishing verse?

anyway, yes to the postcards. as long as you'll promise to do the same...