Prose for John Camacho

I had to leave; mostly to get away. The people broke me. Broken, my friends laid mourn cloths. Once cloaked, I needed escape. The exit strategy simple: get away. The method, all I knew: highway intercourse. I braved some parties. I challenged some long-time diversions. I finished an album. I left. All that said (spoken, written), I was destined to be alone. At some point. Tragically, unabashedly, alone. New pitfalls, lucky breaks, distant attempts at communication; there were laws that didn't apply, tools I had never applied, jobs; applied. After all that, I found the highway again. It took me close to the edge of what I once knew, but, upon returning, after a long expanse of no return, I was viewed as a ghost. Treated to frills set aside for visitors, vacationers; I was alone. Not rejected and not trusted; somewhere there were hugs and embraces, distanced. I did return once in full. As full as I could be. Accomplished and hollow. I don't think things were ever the same. But, I remember who you speak of; and it brings me back: a movie theater where a band played where the screen once flickered with images of Hollywood. I had seen my first R-rated movie there. Without adult supervision. Later, down the road, I tried to manage a small tour for these gents. It partially worked. Was generally well received. I guess I could see some genius in the family blood. They were always extremely engaging; everyone drawn; in. And still, I'm left jealous and scraped. Raw, burned, rashed. What happens when you stay? If you've never left? What happens is all I can say. All the great sparks, the intrigue, the phenomenal bath you have all created. The broth of rich and tender. The soup of smart and knowing. I tasted it. And, I wanted to say, "and I spit it out." But, I didn't. I drank it down, savored it, cherished it. Here I am, but vapors, telling you how I lived. How tragically tempered. And, that I want to join your sacred circle as I am. Spiritless, transfixed, invisible.