Tuesday, April 29, 2014
That song i heard one night while laying on the floor
You know in that last post i mentioned this song, the song written by the guy who now owns that record store, and after a little digging i found this one and only version on the interwebz, this might be one of my favorite songs ever put to tape, you see this song reminds me of this kid i knew, a big kid with a wild head of knotted hair who lived on the third floor of a three story walk-up, where he had no bed until he discovered that the beat-up leather couch against the wall was a sleeper sofa and he pulled off that thin mattress and tossed it onto the floor, bought a couple of foam egg-shells mattress pads and called it a bed, in that apartment with the hole in the ceiling where every time it snowed outside it snowed in the kitchen, right in front of the fridge, an old beaten kitchen table in the corner of his room, his radio atop it that seemed to never be turned off, an old manual typewriter, piles of books, French doors and a balcony with an old bar that overlooked the scenic monstrosity that was North Oakland, his favorite bars dirty sign visible in a piss yellow light, the room where he caught that break and could catch two elbows on the cuff to supplement the income and the drinking and drugging, handing his old-ex best friend a cut for doing nothing more than answering the door and grabbing beers now and then, back then it seemed as if that kid could feel and taste and see every breath he took, an absolutely beautiful existence with no net or plan or idea of what might happen next, living off thieving from the Bagel Joints cooler and hustling dollars bills into his pocket from the special the place ran, 4 bagels for a buck- no tax- 3 coupon limit, on a busy lunch you might grab close to twenty bucks and with the contraband meat and cheese you had dinner and a head start on the boozer, he bought Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain with that stolen money, a one block radius that contained the universe, a supermarket - 4 bars- liquor store- breakfast joint- laundromat- pharmacy- pizza joint- strip bar, there was no need to leave, and it was there on that block, in that third floor walk-up that this kid heard this song one night, laying on the floor as the sound of the late night streets came drifting in and a little white kitten lay next to him purring, feeling the breeze come in through the crack in the French doors, those lyrics made a lot of fucking sense, rudderless, grasping at any wisp of hair that he could fall in love with, whether he meant it or not, the arrogant and beautiful pain of the young existentialist wrapped up in the fine art of living, looking back he wasn't such a bad kid, yeah he may have caused a few headaches for those that loved him and those that attempted to, but deep down he didn't have any bad intentions, as a matter of fact quite the opposite, and don't worry he's doing alright these days, oh it's been years but you'd still recognize him, i catch glimpses of him every now and then... and when i do it always makes me smile...
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Does he have two young sons?
...in the mirror?
Exile- He might.
jesus, kono... this is poetry. i'd watch that movie. i'd read that book. i'd buy that kid a proper fucking sandwich and a few pints...
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