Somewhat Later

Say what you want, Jesse Winchester is great, ducked to Canada and that's no sin, avoiding a war he wanted no part of. No time to read between the lines. Back then, you did what you had to. I stayed up for a week and snorted benzedrine, looked like shit and was the first person out the door. Probably means I can't be a Supreme Court justice, but doesn't affect my life in many other ways. The devil in details, I don't want to be in the position of killing someone. Even if it was unavoidable. Take a cab somewhere else, China Town, underneath the bridge, where they sell sates in stalls and you don't ask what meat you're eating. Yes, I should be more aware, but I'm stupidly asleep, come a little bit closer, there's something I need to say, because I'm still in love with her. Could you just dance again? Something in the toe-nail polish, a message. I thought I saw something. I'm sure I'm wrong, nonetheless, under the cloak of darkness, you resemble someone I used to know. Relapse into sickness. Feeling as bad as I have in years, bad timing, but I do take off an hour early, nap, drink some chicken broth, nap, sweating, then chills. Shaping up as the week from hell, because I have to be on the road Friday, taking the ODC Show north of Columbus. Two more road trips the next two weeks, collecting the last of the Circus Show; the auction, the movie premier, setting the Circus Show. I want to enjoy this stuff, not feel like shit and barely slog through. Hard labor, in this condition, breaking rocks into smaller rocks, I can barely lift the hammer. I make a note to get a new book on Corvids. If you'd ever watched a wake crows held over one of the recently dead, you wouldn't doubt their intelligence. They recognize me by sight. I'm beat, I have to go to bed. I haven't eaten enough but I'm exhausted. Being sick is hard work. You got to move a long train. Carry me home. That same old song. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. See what tomorrow brings. I need to sleep.