Johnny Cash, R.I.P.
you hurt us all today
see that we all feel
we focus on our pain
it throbs cold, all this is real.
why does everyone we love
go away in the end.
sole voice
meandering horizon
comes beneath your black boot
the wanderer is lost
sunset came too soon
and as you search
for your beloved june
may you find that final peace
with your bible and your gun
who will guide us now
who will be our man in black?
Sep 12, 2003
The Wanderer
Sep 2, 2003
freewrite.
We are at the crossroads here, and as we sit here thinking about what the path ahead of us may show – we are still here thinking about all that may happen and there is another time when all of this would be ok, and yet, there we are and here are the words as they come from my finger tips, a much more quick movement from thought to realization – almost yet not quite as clear as from thought to speech – we are forever trying to replicate our brilliance in speech in the written word, and forever falling short. Perhaps this is the reason why I obsess over the possibility of carrying a microphone around with me wherever I go – the tidbits at least somewhat more comprehensible, relevant, and good in the speaking, the crumbs more delicious as audible bites than the stutter-step of the written word. And yet – I never come around to being able to do it, and I’m still thinking about what else there is that I could be writing about – and the stream of consciousness that is today is the art of tomorrow. Or maybe in this stream, there is no time – there is no today or tomorrow – only here and now – and we do not age, and we do not lose, and the immortality that we all are seeking can be found in the words that we speak without pause.
The spell is broken as we awake, and here we are in loneliness, for you are lost, at last.
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