i was born a long way from where i'm supposed to benso now i'm on my way home.nand I'm going to get myself some help.nni've got some places to be and oh am i on my way,nbut i've driven too far to only be here.nit must have been those stops, those self-important grandeur delusions,nhigher than a georgia pine and sure to end on a one-way street a mile and a half from the nearest lamppostnlike someone i'd like to read about.nthat's all they are, the pills and powders: just grown-up grade-school glory,nthrilling in movies about your life that no one will ever make,nless glamorous every night behind a door locked all alone.nni can't talk like i used to: it's always on the tip of my tongue, never your ear.nbut hell, we all wrote dramatically in college, right?nso i stay a steady course: list my greatest accomplishments on a cocktail napkin, my greatest failures on my thumb;nbut arteries still race out of my pupils like thin red lightning bolts.nni'm knowing less of importance, and more of basements and bathrooms.nand of you: all of you, all too well.nmeet me tonight down by the water; at the end of 7th there are less lights.nni've said too much: i don't want to worry you or kill the mystic and me.nthere are no movies with self-referential narrators predicting a fall from grace.nmy shirts keep getting smaller, my tattoos bigger, same narcissism on my insides and out.nwhat am i trying to prove with permanence or lack thereof?ni only say 'these are the times to remember' when i want to forget.nnno more wordplay, i cannot be any clearer.ni am talking about something that's all glamour and cut out magazines when it's overnand all awkward silence when i'm screaming to you right now: