clean up

My uncle used to work refigeration. All day long, 365 days a year he was working. I was overjoyed as a kid to help him work or hang out with him. I remember he always was greasy and dirty from crawling under people's freezers. He had a certain smell from work, not bad, just his smell. Actually, a good smell. When I work hard I smell like it, but the only hard work I do these days is come up with ideas for people who don't have any good ideas. My hands are rough any more. Some nights, when it feels like I don't know why I keep working, I have a dream about my uncle and it's simple. He's not telling me any messages. He's just there. We're eating fried chicken and watching some dumb movie and it's all OK again. I haven't had fried chicken in a long time.

P-N
W-S

I realize we used this picture before, but it's late, I'm drinking and have something to say.

the guitar strings

Every note is still in me and I hear it reverb through headphones and car stereos and ringtones. It's an overwhelming acknowledgment that its OK to be sad, its OK to give up your control and its OK to just give up. And I can't, I won't, as I stare into the sky. Hank Williams died in a limo before he was old and wrote sad songs, songs so sad that sad girls had to go and make them sadder. As I stare out across the south end of my city, I wonder about the people. I can only see their windows or shapes of houses. I hope some of them out there are debating whether or not to kick the chair over. I hope that some of them are OK. I'd like to think that the sunset is a blanket of "it'll be all alright tomorrow" that we can all lay down underneathe and cuddle.

P-N
W-S