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you and me and our winter nights thing listen, i'm here and you're asking me how and why and what's the color of the sunset where i am, and i know words belong here and there's something to be said. so i am thinking about mingus at midnight and thirty packs of milwaukee's best and then, for awhile, we were milawukee's best and i know, shit, i know passing time with you was always easy and it always will be. so you don't trust yourself with me or me with you and maybe that's right, maybe it's just a fuzzy logic answer for things things we don't understand and the best things usually are. so maybe this isn't as clear as it could be as it should be and maybe i don't know exactly what i'm being unclear about or how to say the nothing something i'm not really sure i have anything to say about. but here it is and i hope it makes some sort of strange sense to you. and i've been listening to braid alot lately and thinking about the days when first we didn't really talk or drinking beer and carving goop from between table creases or at least watching you. i'm thinking about things sober, now. the funny thing is, i thought for so long if i just got drunk enough i wouldn't have to think for awhile and when i did, it would all be distant and reasonable and a story for grandchildren about my estranged wild moments. it never works like that and it didn't then either. and i'm thinking about passion and drama and lasting past dawn and i know the only thing that ever lasts with me is here, scrawled on a typed screen, leafed out greasy and irrelevant. so how did all my readers get to be women anyway? they are, though. i know that but it didn't used to be true. so i know what i am. winter nights and red dog and morning don delillo and newspapers over coffee in ransacked 1970's muggs and i know it was all a miracle and i was a wounded sort of angel in those days, and i know it started so long before all that. and coastergirl was always jealous of you and rightly so, i guess, though never on purpose, but those things never are. you know, it's funny how i hsaven't finished that sotry either. there's so many stories i have yet to tell. so many nights i havent' recalled to the world and left, open, safety off, unleashed on our impractical existence. maybe it's still a bottle of KD away and maybe i'm too tired to tell them all just now. maybe i need to know there will always be stories out there for me to tell. i traded whisky for tea and i'm thining the change was me. so i guess this isn't any sort of answer and maybe you weren't even looking for one, but it's the best i have right now. the best i know how to say what i'm not really all that clear on. the last time i saw you you were falling in the street with oz and trying to climb back up and i was laughing and climbing in for the long drive home. it was so strange to not be allowed in your house. i don't think about that so much these days, just how it might be nice to hear your voice every now and then or how it makes me smile when i see a note you left me, how i always look for your name in red and for so long now, it hasn't been. and i'm rambling on i know and trying to throw it all out, away or somethwhere more beauitful than the world we have left to live in. things are coming clearer to me now and i know things i didn't want to know then and no train could ever turn me around. so i try to stand in the storm and be lionkiller this one last time and know that it will always be the way it needs to and i hope you understand. i never even knew these fucking things would record this long. did it cut me off? well, if you're listening to this just now it's probably live and i don't know whether i want you to pick up or not, but i know i'm doing the best i can and laughing pretty much all the time and getting through and getting by and i hope the weather's good where you are. forecast: the rain will dry up, the icycles will melt, and someone somewhere is always thinking about you.
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