I live a low life.
always leaving.
running down legs.
running to the next town.
hiding in NYC from time to crime.
Like a dead leaf mantis,
always here, moving
in plain site,
positing on airplanes
to strangers about the mystery
of history and dreams of corduroy.
A certain someone still
has me fucked up,
but I wouldn't change a thing,
especially songs and poems.
Moving on is miserably magnificent,
teaching listening like long hunts
between the condensation bubbles
on the side of a big beer,
as well as leaving sellable scars
that turn into art,
making heart break a thing
of profit with dollars and inspiration.
Easy with the judgement;
I feel it through this shit
and your reading of it.
I am just charging on
and charging whiskey to hotel rooms,
where I pass out and dream of corduroy pants
and falling off buildings.