What’s the price of leavin’
‘cept finding more of the same?
In Orlando we got coffee houses,
barefoot mohawks reading Bukowski,
gossip-queens in knitted caps
reciting poetry, picketing for social justice;
we got legs spread and mouths open,
college philosophy bartenders,
tech-heads, romantics, and the dead rising;
we got Friday nights and Sunday mornings, just like they say in the songs,
we got joy and fun and all of that
everybody who ever owned a pair of
Chucks scheming to get away.
They got that in Atlanta, too- spruced up with Dogwood trees and granola bar mountains-
and they got that in Brooklyn- but with better drugs and holier graffiti-
and they got it in Seattle- where even as a kid I knew there was no hope to be found but guitar strings.
What’s the price of spitting on one side of the street
‘cept finding gum and piss and trash on the other?
They say the enemy you know, y’know?
But I can’t seem to stop thinking that finding is just looking
and looking is just radiating light,
but it’s hard to shine at all when all you wanna do is hide
from the hopelessness of being where you are,
and of being anywhere else.