My Roots

This rain it's killing me, the clouds the gloom I'm sinking into doom
He says things like if life sucks then you suck and he's right
I'm dreaming of a foreign land with lots of color
away from the vast drear that is America
Even though I stay close to the coasts and the cities
Los Angeles, San Francisco New York what have you
I'm still craving Bangkok, Shanghai, Beijing, Hong Kong, Ho Chi Minh
Ladies in eyeliner and men in suits trading money and temples in bars
and of course my boots
my roots

So I retreat back to my back room
where I slip into some colors no not a fucking negligee
not something more comfortable, how fucking cliche'
I'm taking about my hair and the stripes I stick in them
To make me feel more risque'
But when in reality I'm craving the road
some drugs
a drink
a party
something more than this
something somewhere else
something totally different than this

Part of me thinks I should go back to work for a few months
YOU fucking douche. You should write for a few months.
Keep writing, it's the only thing that keeps you sane.
Fucking winter months
I did not expect you to come so soon.

So you got some time on your hands. So you got some time on your hands,
No I hate twitter and facebook and myspace. I am not a networking beast.
Never really was. Always just wanted to be loved and adored. But don't want to put in that much work.
I make myself feel horrible and worse. I don't have it in me like you do.
I'm reading A. Burroughs and Listening to Steven M. and hanging out in Greensboro with M&M and I recognize the cynical gay man in me. Except perhaps sometimes I can be pretty. Well then what is the difference?
We're the same. But I got stuck, and sucked into this Hetero world, when I should have been slutting around Gay Sydney in my heels not Gay LA, it's pretty lame anyway. Ok, New York City?
Nah. Bangkok, oriental setting.
Either way, it seems pretty obvious to me anyway. I should develop some sort of addiction or affliction or ailment. Shouldn't I anyway? Do my nails. I guess it's that time anyway. Do my nails and paint my hair. Come sit down at this desk with a glass of wine. Shit, it's not even noon yet.
So, the world is supposedly coming to an end. And if that is the case, what would I really desire to do with my final dying days?
I don't even really have to think about it. Not sitting on twitter making friends. Not fucking talking to people on myspace whom I don't even know. That is not my forte'. Not how I roll. Some people can be friends with random people they meet online. Not me. And perhaps that is why I cannot promote this band the way you do. The way in perhaps I should. I cannot. I cannot. I don't get into it. Though perhaps I could. Maybe I just don't want to or don't give a fuck.
And this guy the other night. In between trying to sweet talk me, telling me that he fears rock n roll is dead. Where do we go he asks? If so, then what is it all for? What the fuck is it all for? None of this even fucking matters anymore. This stupid rock and roll world, and rock n roll dream. He surmises its all for the dead.
So then what? Where does that leave me? Well let's just sit here and think about it for a moment. Sit here and think about it long and hard for a dark dreary fucking moment.
Do I care about these therapists self help continuing educational units teleconferences you all keep trying to invite me to? Hell no.
Do I care about the strip club where the rock bands play? Probably not.
Do I care about the train station somewhere in the middle of the Sahara desert? Yes. Yes. Yes. I want to be back on the road with my camera and my pain. I want to document the colors.
It always goes back to the colors.