East Coast, I can feel your restless, aching legs from all the way out here. I can smell your rainy streets, I can taste your stormdrains stuffed with cigarette butts, tampons, receipts, orange needle caps. We both know you roll with the safety off. You’re a reckless, callous kind. I can already feel myself not giving a fuck. I can already see that red flag pop into the dirty water, smack between the lines; but I’ve read between your lies. I know what you’re sellin’.
East Coast, I brought you some presents. I didn’t bother to wrap them, I know you’re not one for ribbons and tape. I’ll send it USPS, while I travel “United Spiritual Principles & Service”. I’m just struggling to find myself getting there. I can hear your road rage, resting between visors & glares; hard looks and stares. You’re angry, like a freshly spent shell casing. You’ll burn anything you touch for a moment, if it’s soft enough. You’re crass; made of brass. I share your anxiety. It keeps me up when I have nothing better to worry about. I never sleep anymore. I go to my dreams and I meditate. And last night, I thought of you.
East Coast, I breathe you, I know you. We slept together beneath cool skies, soft stars, calm breezes. I long for your sunset hues of grapefruit juice pink and whiskey amber. That sweet smell of shady riverbanks is calling me. I miss the creak my knee gets when your skies cry; I cry too. I wish I had given you more than my troubles & tortures, but I’m coming back to make it full circle. I’m still here to let you know that I have no fear. I’m still around to let you know that I worship your ground.
East Coast, I’ve seen your demise. We expired together on that garage floor, suspended gracefully between life & death. If you OD’d, I’d probably be out of town and miss your funeral. I’d expect the same from you. But we both know, as long as we are together, we can’t really die. We embark on our maiden voyages, alone. That day will come. It always does.
East Coast, I’m here to help. I bear the burdens & the releases of medicine. It is my belief that before one becomes a doctor, one must be very ill, and recover. We all share what ails us in society, our ability to recieve healing relies upon our perceptions of ill will. This is the art of preventing that which ails us. There is almost as much hope as there is dope. You are a mighty pendulum, mesmerizing the populace with your fine china and silver spoons. The scale will eventually tip in our favor; illness can’t exist without good health.
East Coast, I hear your message. You preach tough love and survival. You keep us fit and afraid. You are forcing the hand of evolution, in a dirty set-up of a poker game. Your boys are around back, waiting to stomp me and run my pockets if I win. I get it. Yours is a game of rigs and fixes. The House always wins. And that’s why I love you, because whether or not you know it (and I think you do), you’re paving a painful road to eventual freedom. Old giants will awaken, and old habits will become useless. Pile it on. Use less cut, & more scissors. I take it as a challenge and a mockery of life, to live in a land where the authority of death holds reign. I keep a flame close to my candle for the ones we lost, and the ones we’ll lose. They’ll light our way and I’ll walk for them. Damned if I take anything more than a moment’s rest, I play this game close to my chest.