I walk the Spanish streets
a hundred times a day,
and spend countless hours
in the company of my friends,
playing music in the warm light
of the flamenco bars
across town
from my rustic apartment
in the north.

Every turn reveals some traditional beauty,
laced with style
and enchanting in its selfless honesty.
Bright dresses and laughter
flood my senses,
along with the angelic faces possessed,
apparently,
by every señorita around,
taking away my breath
and filling my lungs with flavor
and love
and everything I ever missed.

The beaches, lined with palm trees,
roasting in summer sun,
and crammed with everything a man could need,
provide the ideal base
for a new working life in the arts,
where every client is unique
and wonderful in a new way,
and each moves from client to friend
in a matter of minutes,
and all of whom can be found
at one party or another,
at one time or another,
indulging in the wonders
of all I am yet able to describe:
The norms of this life being the riches
of so many others.

There's a place I go,
when the mood happens to strike,
where the music is cuban
and the drinks, the same,
where everything you can imagine
can happen,
and often does,
and the party is literally without closure.
In this place, I am home,
and there is no place else to be.
When the mood happens to strike.

This life is too good to degrade to ink,
too vibrant to reduce to monochrome,
and yet,
somehow too good to be true.

I wake to find myself
a thousand miles from where I was,
in the midst of a typical slavic winter,
and surrounded only by people
I do not know,
chatting outside my apartment
on the city limits,
all but ignorant of my presence.
This was the dream just two years ago.
What happened to that?
How do I get back to the dream?

Another day, another dollar,
stacking slowly,
towards the next step in my endless journey.
Why must I always move on?

Guess I'll find out when I get there.