After the accolades I got, I had as much to learn about life as
that sense of history, three hundred feet into a tiny creekbed.
You know what? She wasn’t the delightful moonshine.
I introduced myself to the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders:
They were my audience—we were holed up at the tunnel.
I don’t think there’s any question that my mistake was
a comfy house in Studio City. Riding on the backs of manta rays,
the launching pad that would forgive you for being a storm,
everything went unforgiveable, a mountain that is the music,
the singing violins and crashing cymbals. Casa Vega, a star.