Baby grand and wien

After an overnight flight
Slept maybe 1 hour or two
Head bobbing and weaving

shirt covered in drool

I arrive in Vienna just before a bus of Chinese
Checked in fell asleep dreamed of silence and ease

I dreamt. I played a piano hotel lobbies didn’t know the different keys
Or the colors. Or notes. Simple things
Meant to relax to sooth to please

I’m Inspired by well planned integrations
Inspirations and migrations
Sounds and colors make vibrations

Songs to sing and set hearts paces to
Foods to bring and try new tastes too

From many one. Traditional and new.

Low plastic stool, cheap but delicious noodles, cold Hanoi beer.

I’ve been to Strasbourg
on a horse with 4 names
just another dying city wrapped up in Islamic flames
I wandered around lost like Anthony Bourdain
I saw a baby sitting on the street all alone in the rain
Broken mother in the bar sticking needles in her veins

“Live love eat fuck”
and don’t tell me this doesn’t suck

The less you know the more you’ve been around
the more places you go the smaller become the towns

Lead the horse to water
Bleed the source
alone now lives your daughter Depression’s course

Die a mile in other people’s shoes
If that doesn’t work than eat their food

Standing outside a boarded up shopping center the polluted river wraps soaked newspapers around my ankles laden with articles of the dead and dying dozens by the score I rub my fingertips across my temples til they’re bloody open sores as a homeless grandmother pleads me for a score until the paper turns to sand like their wars

“But you were so rich you had it all”
Tasted the world burnt ends to raw

I stayed in the same hotel summer 18 they had no red wine and worse no damn AC
Just a shitty swivel fan in the window with no screen

I lie awake for days trying to sleep in the heat
Black moths flew through the fan dead meat
Chewed up bits and broken wings became the blanket of meh to cover me

much like your spiritual tattoos
Will become your tuxedo in your tomb
Looking for life’s answers on the surface of the moon
After learning to fly with knives and forks and plastic little spoons

Hotlanta pit pull

The clouds changed direction because
In those hills. In those hills.
There is something

She could have been a bean. A bear. Or on the silver screen
But she was born a Georgia peach
So she’s been hanging from a tree

Off snapfinger road
Snapfinger road
In Social Circle Ga
Past the mill lies a rope
Lies a shoe in the hay

In Augusta the masters all feel good
On the coast Savannah hosts the moss
On I-20 east right deep in the wood
They’re smoking Bonnie May on a cross

She could have been put together
With some wings or fins to fly
But she was born of humid weather
Held down and born to die

The smoke changed direction because
In those hills. In those hills there is nothing.