For all your pretty talk, your heart tends to wander.
You're always ditching some sweet life in D.C.,
or Las Vegas, or San Diego,
and trickling off to a grubby triple-homicide
in a part of the world nobody wants to see.
Nice memories of all the heres and theres:
sunsets made of bourbon, waves
crashing against the winter midnight,
fists of rusty mountains knuckling
into some good Western sky—
And the girls, too, passing like cirrus clouds
or sometimes faster, like a pack of smokes at a concert,
great, transitory, and then you stagger into love
with something else again sort of like
a honky-tonk piano rattling into
a surprise new key,
you never want much, do you?
But when you do want,
god keep you and your crazy guitar heart,
because that thickstupid intensity you get
is both your best and worst quality, brother.
It fills your whole world up with wanting
and scares the shit out of the kids.
But headlong into the chaos is sort of how you got here,
or there, or anywhere, really--
you travel enough and eventually everything
is made of gold with this sun falling over it,
your world of insane magic disasters and strange men
sitting on porches, eyes glancing off the sunset,
saying Son, have you ever played the piano?
And their light will turn to silk and ribbon and
home is everywhere and new again.