palisades inquisition

I lost my spirit somewhere along the Palisades Parkway one night while I was breaking out cocaine on the soundtrack of A Beautiful Mind. The frost had just arrived, the windows were fogged, and I was approaching the 48 hour mark. With the steering wheel between my knees, I headed north toward my own destruction. I watched with dilated pupils as the dampened lights of The Bronx antagonized the cliffs of New Jersey. I can still taste those poor decisions when they creep up my spine and break into my brainstem.

Years later God helped me find my spirit on the Bear Mountain Bridge while listening to A Love Supreme. It was one of those summer nights when the air physically electrocutes your soul and you swear some brilliant guy in a director’s chair is about to yell, “CUT!!!” A misty river encompassed by hills of camouflage, under the canopy of a rising moon, tales of old echoed from Stony Point to Peekskill. You can still hear them if you’re suspended over the Hudson at a quarter past midnight and you listen closely with the windows cracked just right.