I want to leave. Pull all my responsibilities from the trunk and throw them in the street. Fill it instead with a guitar and lounge pants. That old rock n’ roll tee. I want to be free.
I want to leave. Ease on down the road in my decades-old Corolla. Find me a half-buried bus in a far end of Terlingua. Take up letterpress for a living and meaningless words into handmade paper until I get myself sorted.
I want to leave. And I don’t want to bring nobody. Keep carrying on with my Internet girlfriend when she’ll have me. Make do with popcorn and porn when she won’t.
I want to leave. The clothes the job the ties. Mondays. Tuesday’s. Wednesdays. Thursdays. Fridays. Make them all happy days again, if they ever were.
I want to leave. Place one Bach book on the piano and learn it all the way through. Learn it real good. Like I should have as a kid. And could have, but never did.
I want to leave. Leave Mom and Dad behind. Bid them well and then forget about them. Not caring one bit whether either one goes to heaven or hell.
I want to leave. Erase this hypocritical, greedy, racist, sick-ass country from my mind. America can go fuck itself to moon. And when it gets there throw the flag it placed there in the trash and then turn its face to space-junk-shrouded earth and weep and apologize.
I want to leave. It’ll be cold at night and I’ll have no heat. Probably I’ll freeze, but also there’ll be stars and that an ok way to go. Staring up at stars. Perfect in their inhumanity. Perfect in their indifference.