I never should've gone to New York



I remember the morning I left



high white sun a warm

last December day like

today



loading my guitars and bags into

the back and trunk of a blue Corolla



my Mom crying as I drove away; in some sense

begging me to stay though not saying



but there had been weeks before the whisky night

in our old damp basement and me puking later in bed and her



cleaning it as I smoked a bitter cigarette on the small front

porch. Muttering. I was full of hate. And



it was for myself. I'm reaching back

beyond the beginning but I'd been

busting for a year selling shoes at JC Penney

in the mall. yeh



God, I'm reaching back too far because

the story I want to tell is why I never should've



gone to New York.

All day today I've been wanting to cry and it's been



based in love and love is what we all need

and also what breaks us and this constant breaking



is what makes us whole

and human and this why I went to New York



and also why I never should've. and

also why I left.



I remember a day many months and in fact years

after I'd gone to New York I stepped outside



Grand Central onto 41st or wherever the fuck

and I realized the evil whole.



The thing that feeds ablaze on cold America.

The emptiness. The non-need festering.



I think it was then I knew to leave though it took me months;

an eviction and 2 more fucked seasons



down the street and on the sidewalks to tell.

No not to tell. It's taken this long to tell.



And this, a poor telling.

I'll save the best for later. At least



that's what I say