art by the feral artist
Jason fled the foothills of North Carolina and soon realized it had never truly been home. A distilled spirit roamed the lands and he decided following its scent was all he could do. A cryptic thing rarely seen but often written about, it was this classy beast that plopped him down in L.A. The world hasn't stopped spinning, so there's time.
i pray for my own soul every night
pray it into existence. make it a state
with light acid jazz humming over the stereo
desperately trying to make the voice
in my head come back
and as the day releases it's grip
all the noise and evolution
onto its belly.
just words in the bed. just another ending.
then, remembering how many times
i made up my mind today
how many times i made it make sense.
that seemed very far away now.
the insane drip drip of silence
with the covers
pulled up tight. it's easy to recount
all the times i made it work. how i solved
at red lights. cured this flu
waiting for the elevator.
dressed it all up in fantastically styled colors and lights.
all of that seemed very far away now
while watching headlight shine
dance across a very bland bedroom wall.
and God hides in plain sight.
that's what they tell me.