No Place to Roll a Joe

No place to Roll a Joe

Sitting here bumbing away on a flatchested seat Rolling my way on through the belitteled landscape of dead philosophy. Playing with my frontal lobe, of which i hold so dear to my Heart, keeping me away from the so Called glorified reality of too little time and too many things.
Warmth of a paper and some ink is what my mind in all my sweet delusion will miss all the cold dead Night, and on through those next mornings of which i have no High hopes for in Terms of love and culture.
A slow paced guitar mixed with the scream of a near death experience courses through my tired bones of this all too young body.
Now in a moment wintery winds will arrive, and i will be either in the warmth of my own choice or not - whatever it is i deem redeeming for my all too missed immortality. Too many variables, sprinkling through my vision of the near future like a meteor shower every rock heading for some place to dissolve whatever surface it decides to land on.
Here i sit again, writing on my phone as if i had no Home, no place to Roll a Joe sit back and enjoy the show. Feels like every word i have written and am writing slithers away like the fumes of snow only living as it hits the window, and then in a second dies Down the glass as a watery mass mixed in soon to be just invisible gass.