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.