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May 7th 2014 Pitillal, Mexico

Reflections of a morning spent being sold a timeshare in Puerto Vallarta. Not just dead...this place is the act of death itself. A death the timid look for—one so enticing. Small administered doses to numb the heart a bit to forget. Enough to lull the brain so sleep can come. Enough for peace.   The conversations to end. To defeat all further quest ions with the reply, "because I deserve it." I pause and ask , will songs be sung in its corridors at night? Oil be put to canvas, ink to paper? Will there be children in footed pajamas outside after bedtime laughing and dancing under starry night skies? Where, near the foyer? Near the guard shack? By the edge of the pristine green lit infinity pool? What will we create in these palaces on the hill, in these little villas of death that will make us yearn to be alive? Tell me, because time is already set against us.
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Sometimes every once in a blue moon a song pops up in my head fully formed.  I almost can't write it down fast enough.  It's a sing - along in the old Folk tradition...Think Woody Guthrie meets John Prine. You Should Write A Song About That Chorus: If I had a dollar every time someone said You should write a song about that, I could build me a palace like the Taj Mahal Just to live in the cottage out back I'd throw away caviar, ‘cause I wanted the jars, free grocery store lobsters, hand you keys to my car If I just had a dollar every time someone said, You should write a song about that. Remember the times we used to ride the rails When the train slowed down through town How Jim didn't manage to climb aboard And the train just ran him on down He was too young to die, as everyone said And man that’s a god damn fact Remember those days, we were crazy and wild, You should write a song...
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