Revolt.
I’ve been scratching my head at my modest mission control. The paper and pens are all in line, the guitars are ready to go, in all their ridiculous tunings. Firewood crackles, root vegetables broil.
But something’s awry. Something’s amiss. The words and easiness of living have been stymied, stifled in a way that makes my living-room laps feel meaningless — I’m not going anywhere.
Spring. The shyest of all seasons. The champion of broken branches and sidewalk lakes. That’s what we need around here.
Green greennesses and the scent of wet earth.
There has to be a coup, a spell, an ache, a touch, a pleasure soon. We need to make a sick fire outside. We need to sit on the tailgate of a pickup truck and get refreshed.
In the bedroom, empty cases are lined up underneath the window, ready to go. We need to plan our escape. But we’re going to have to have a little help from the heavens.