No. 230 - You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere

I woke up to a rain-soaked pearl snap on a kitchen chair, a casualty of an Austin gully washer.

I crashed on a buddy’s couch after an evening that started with a seafood tower and ended with baked Alaska.

When I got back to my place an hour ago my luggage and briefcase were gone.

So I had a Marlboro for breakfast while ants crawled on my feet.

I’m sitting on a back porch in the Hill Country. The overcast is depressing. Birds are chirping. There’s a gentle breeze, but not enough to blow the ashes from my bellybutton.

Behind a rock fence lined with antlers sits an old Airstream.

Patches of Mexican hats and cactus nap in a field of brush.

All I have to my name is a red lighter, a Bukowski paperback, and wet cowboy boots.

“You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere” by The Byrds is playing.

Not sure what to do. I have a tee time in a few hours, but I don’t imagine I can play in Wranglers. Speaking of, the ass end of these jeans is wet now.

I washed my hair with bar soap and didn’t brush my teeth. But the birds are still chirping and Gram Parsons is singing.

The universe seems to have another plan.

I don't care how many letters they sent
The morning came, the morning went
Pack up your money, pick up your tent
You ain't goin' nowhere

-Composed, Edited, and Published at The Duda Ranch in Fischer, TX