and feeling good, missing Chicago, and the gal there, but feeling good.
I got Pokey LaFarge songs in my brain, and whiskey in my coffee, while I rumble.
it's not as hot as it was last week which is good, because I am tired of riots.
shuffling towards the setting sun, where the river meets the rain,
whistling just because black chicks smile at me, double down.
harmonica in my pocket, cocaine in my wallet, tonight can only
let me down by two turns of a frown, cab ride, and a text message.
kicking down stairs with messy facial hair as always, my Nikes know.
I'm too beatifically poor to burn things out of protest for protests, plus
we should lean towards the side of newness and air and dancing in danger.
fuck it, I got nothing to lose, but I know folks who have a lot to burn.
two-stepping to Brooklyn in spite of all, feeling like a cat or a bitch,
because deep down I am just as scared as the rest of these souls.
the key is to keep going, squeeze the life out of the day, and the love out of life,
no matter what kicks you in the stomach when you try to look cool.
ordering a Rosh Hashanah gin at a stop-over tavern, toasting to the death of summer,
being alone is the best, especially on an island as long as this,
because I am just a plain old Florida boy who has been getting high on travel
for such a long time, reading the papers, and passing the time.