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.

    Poetry readings normally carry the stigma of stuffy rooms filled with turtlenecks, thick smoke, and wines you can’t pronounce; well this one had all those except it had pretty damn good poetry.  Poems of smelling a girls shampoo while pounding her from behind, five year old pool sharks being hoisted through bars by Mexican bikers, and drunken Europeans dancing in Chucky T’s and whitey tighties.  Yeah, there were laughs even from the old man who couldn’t seem to pick out all his nose gold throughout the night.

    There was even some good background music coming from the bar next door.  A band of seventeen year olds, The Blue Threads, were playing Zeppelin covers while drawing away the poetry crowd one by one until just the regulars were left to hear the old nose read his lines one more time just in case someone missed them the first time.

    We split to go back to my old friend’s pad for a quick smoke and memories.  We realized that we had been friends for over ten years now and haven’t physically seen each other in almost two.  Nothing really has changed except that our poems only talk about lost loves and not the bubbly young ones that we try desperately to remember their names while eating breakfast.

    He and thirteen other local Houston poets are doing the “Word Around Town” poetry reading beginning this Sunday and touring through Htown bars and coffee-shops until next Saturday.  Look it up online and plan on going one night…you won’t be disappointed.  Say hi to me if you see a wild haired drunk with a goatee dripping week old nacho cheese.