The Honda Dream 50 cut through the heart of Houston with poetic precision to be parked in the den under the care of a demonic kitten.  We were a six pack deep rolling stoned to the concrete cage in which some like to vent their rage.  Deep blue walls punched inches in…hard outlines of mushrooms and skulls.  Ink still unseen should whisper the written yells rather than the screams that make me want to plant this pen in his fucking eye.  That folks is a performance piece.

I’m drinking gin on top of wine, just to let you know.  It kills these ear piercing whines.  His bitches go to 11.  I think his parents didn’t beat enough.  Holy shitting pope, he’s published.  Do his books come with a warning, are they sold at the suicide booth gift shop?

“Ready to bail?” a voice from behind asks handing over a beer.
“Thank you, yes.”
We pile back into the sardine can sharing the last bottle of brew amongst the fish in the back seat.  We rant about the absolute shitiness of the evening and argue what is worse…the poetry or our munchies.
Leftover Chinese ends the debate.