Thursday, December 6, 2007

Homecoming King

Oh, please pass the whiskey;
as we're passing Rye
it reeks of piss and bleach
on this four hour drive.
I hear they've got some real
nice beaches in Kingston.
I'll stand on the shore
with the sand between my toes
as the ocean waves roll:
Oh, I've really been dying to drown,

but every time I think I've settled down
I find it's time to go.
What is a home
when all you own is in a backpack
and you sleep with your guitar
after countless nights of passing out alone.
Where do you go
when you're always told that there's no place like home?

Please state your name and destination:
My name is Jonas and I have none
Call me Ishmael, and I am for the sea.
You can call me Holden Caulfield,
but I'm still not holding on
to any person, place, or thing where I belong.

This martyr needs a party;
this lover needs a quest.

A thousand times I've heard it said
that home is where the heart is kept,
and all the yellow lines I count like bricks
while staring at the sun
just remind me that I'm always on my way, that
I am on my own.
They point and laugh and tell me where to go
but I am always told that there's no place like home.

I will never be your homecoming king.

Nov. '05

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