I am sick of these chicks and their boots, everyone walking around typing on their phones, tight black jeans, cool sneakers, the cold, the scene, the fake attitudes, people trying too hard to be cool, the endless new condo buildings with their Viking stoves and Sub-Zero refrigerators along with low ceilings, bad light and cheap wood floors taking over downtown, the horn honking, ten bux for a sandwich and a bag of chips, you're either an artist or in finance, the new over designed prohibition era or rustic back woods themed bar/restaurant that pops up every month and looks just like the last one. That Voice billboard says it all, "Where have all the junkies gone?" Get me out of here. Set me free. One more week and I am gone. One more week stuck in my studio working my ass off preparing for FotoFest.
I could never sit still in the classroom or focus on the blackboard, I was too busy staring out the window, at least my mind was outside running around exploring, and I certainly am not the office tuck and tie guy. Somehow I have been blessed and managed to live a life without ever having to hack a 9 to 5 or the Post Office like Buk did, but I ain't no rich kid, everyday I'm hustling. And now even my apartment and this city feel so small. So, America here I come. You will find me under that dark cloth in some skid-row alley, at the diner, late morning, when the light is shit, sipping coffee, writing, thinking; jumping rope and doing push-ups on the side of the highway; at night, at the bar with a hand wrapped around a beer with a wild spark in my eye looking for the action. My Love, I know you are out there, I am on my way, I will find you, we will be together soon enough. We will run through the fields and the alleys as one.