Fat motorcycles,
trendy folk
and hangers on,
people pretending
they know what
the hell they’re
doing and making
laws between
tequila shots,
getting married,
getting buried,
kicking sand a
long way from
the beach
and no art,
no God damn
art, unless
you think its
therapeutic and
then we’re all
artists. I hear
thunder in the
air. It could
be a storm,
one of those
interruptive downpours,
or it could
be Armageddon.
You know, reality
come to crash
the party.
♠