“You gotta have rocks in yer brain to like rocks”

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On making this life;

Stealing popcorn shrimp off bus plates in the sunset light of the riverwalk

mezcal on the deck of the old 1933 bar.

-“Where ya’ll from?” …

-…”Topeka”.

His tiger eye beads from his vacation home in Bali are a stark contrast from his watch on the other wrist.

He doesn’t understand things. “What does one bring in a backpack?”

 

New bar. “Kitchen open still?”

“Yea it’s right over there” *Points to an almost empty vending machine*

Leave that sin in San Antone… and don’t forget to not forget the Alamo.

 

Happiness can be so simple if we breathe.

“Hey, wanna put a bunch of stuff on our backs and walk a long time?” Yep.

Dirty butts and diaper rash and big views and blankets of twinkling stars and celestial tumbleweeds of heavy new ideas.

Sun river road drives and Chaco blisters and downhill waddles that make my stomach ache from laughing and blue bird company and black bear encounters and broken tent pole and windy eyes and hot spring shivers and Tehana ghost wails. With you.

Big motel bed and and spinning on the white desert rocks in the heat of midnight in our dusty fancy clothes and and lsd talks and graveyard walks. Never take it for granted.

“you know they’ve burned witches at the stake for less”

Terlingua.

Saw our future selves in the form of a tacoma truck outside of the starlight Theatre. Mezcal rejected drink makes a fine birthday margarita and patio eavesdropping of unsolicited ping ponging beliefs. It’s all the same if you tilt your ear and squint.

The manifested hopeful form of the old couple walk slowly down the porch steps and he patiently wipes his sunglasses from the perfectly dialed, running truck.

She adjusts her rainbow shawl over a purple dress and shuffles her moon socks over to talk of movement and progress and protesting mediocrity with some young parents.

He lets her pull herself into the passenger cab side by the hand strap he has probably installed with love.

Morning. Motel.

We talk of selfish moments and sometimes question intentions. Manipulating realities and then coming back to the center with wiser hearts.We squeeze the hurt through in our motel bed and drink it out of shot glasses in ghost town bars and grey scale Marfa.

It all comes back to love.

Miles of dirt roads and beers and guitars string songs and bumpy blistering laughs and symbiotic psychosis.

I love you I love you I love you. Happy birthday.

-Cass T. Royale

 

 

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