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the long way around

The living room is a forest of mic stands and cables. A cup of coffee, a large glass of water and a shallow shot of whiskey sit on the tiny white table. I alternate between them, making sure the guitar is in tune, trying to understand if the chair will creak when I lean my head back on the second chorus.  There is a hush in the room. I can hear my own heartbeat. The lyrics are printed out on a fresh piece of paper, large and thick so I can read them easily even though I sing with my eyes closed and will surely forget a handful of words no matter what I do.

The guitar sounds dry, perfect - even honest. I can play a simple D chord with a long strum, or the side of my thumb and it sounds so different. I record a few takes, barefoot in the bright room. I am going too fast in some parts, and my fingers are already sore from the chord changes.

And then all at once, I am thinking of a show I played in an old factory in Brooklyn, way back when I had just started writing songs almost twenty y…

this is Monday



Fifty souls, and surely more when the day is done. Mothers, sons, uncles, loners, school teachers, some with tattoos, some with red hair, some in a favorite pair of boots. I can imagine the warm air. There was laughter and cold beer. Then, people running wild, down airport runways and filling the streets. The pictures come. The gritty videos. The screams. The slap of the gunshots. In all of its ugly, unvarnished truth, this is our world and this is my country. 

This is Monday.






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