One tear peeled out of my dry-as-chalkboard eyes
burning acid trails down my cheeks,
chest
and chin
and I ran inside to confront the alien music,
swirling around in decadent opulence,
leaving pools of sweat on the floor,
and my hands got into it first
leaving me doves on twenty-seven cups of coffee (Expresso),
and then my feet leapt out ahead
and I was being whisked around the room
by spirits without names,
and they didn't give three shits about mine,
and I could barely see a foot in front of my eyes
windshields in a monsoon rain.
Stuart has a tat across his face,
he's drunk -- probably more than drunk but coherent
probably a Nobel Prize Winner from a broken home
who will never quite claim his prize.
He tells me they squat in 9th Ward.
I've heard it's dangerous there
but I guess par for the course
changes with the course.
You can tell a lot about people
from their driving habits.
Some people put their heroes on marble pedestals
but I place my poet super heroes
in full Fritz Freling animated glory
behind the wheels of automotive steel and fury.
