Wednesday, August 07, 2013


I inject some Nirvana in my ears, turn it up as loud as the earbuds will allow. Not loud enough, I say to myself, but it's noise from the sweet, doomed little Pisces man and it covers the silence.

I do not want what I have got, Cobain growls, finishing the rhyme. He was deep in his heroin cups when he wrote "Radio Friendly Unit Shifter," strung out and huddled in a blanket marked with cigarette burns from a few too many nod-outs. Even on the hottest summer nights, the blanket's always handy when you get the chills.

I don't miss those nights. Of course I miss those nights. I debate both sides with conviction: no good in that sweet, sweet poison; no bad from a little sniff of the bitter poppy and her Holy Ghostpowder. I believe both statements because I have lived them and loved their extremes. But I know there is no little sniff. If I buy a ticket I will ride that train all the way 'round the track, through sketchy neighborhoods and across dirty rivers no one should ever visit, not even on a lark.

I get up and make myself some tea, sip deeply from the sober cup, and offer a toast to the silent one who never fell from grace.

I switch the soundtrack in my ears and turn it way, way up:

Try to remember, that you can’t forget
Down with history, up with your head
For sweet tomorrow, she never fell from grace
We might still know sorrow but we got better days ...

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