Was a badass guitar player.
Like the huntress,
only her Strat was her bow.
And her solos were the arrows
she shot into the night.
When they gigged at the Bowl,
all the wild children went crazy.
She channeled that
into a blistering lead
that floored it off the bandstand.
The moon shone brightly.
“Hey batter, no batter, hey batter, you can’t hit.”
Bat, listen to me. I need you now.
Come here, I kiss you.
Swing and a miss.
I bite you!
Just make contact, that’s all.
Foul ball right field line.
with sugar on top.
I lick you.
One base hit, It’s all I ask.
Some of the best criminals
don’t choose it as a career path.
They don’t wake up one morning and say,
“Yeah, I want a life of crime.”
They gradually fall into it one little compromise
and action followed by another until
they’re in too deep.
WB’s Max Ernst sold for five million
and it fooled even the most
discerning collectors and dealers.
It was the dirt he put in the painting
that he collected from an attic in Barcelona.
God works in mysterious ways.
Rashes, sores and pestilence.
How people love to make him responsible
for all manner of random.
Then search for the meaning why.
Was it retribution or reward?
A death in the family,
the whole block burned but their house was spared.
The tree was struck by lightning and the sap exploded
sending shrapnel towards the house.
In the window was their coat of arms
it took a direct hit and smashed to pieces.
They’re cursed now for a whole generation.
Red ball, line of freight cars
big as a football field.
Standing on the platform,
smoking a cheap cigar.
Thinking about the next stop,
forgetting all the last stops.
No home to settle down,
No savings to fall back on.
There’s no 401Ks for drifters.
History doesn’t care for those who ride the Cadillac grainer.
“You know how old the office is.
She came for a treatment and had a visitation.”
“It was a woman though.”
“Everyone who works there knows Fred.
He’s a spirit that everyone has seen.”
“No one has ever seen a woman before.”
“Apparently, she had some kind of cough.
Hacked and hacked like a smoker.”
“Fred would never smoke. He’s a dancer.
We’ve seen him Tango, I kid you not.”
Lovro had a ritual.
Laid the herbs meticulously on parchment paper,
weighed out each ingredient
and created perfectly arranged packages.
The process was meditative and it calmed his nerves.
Once assembled, he carefully folded each parcel
into a neat package and put them gingerly
into a brown paper bag.
Wrote the patent’s name
on the bag in meticulous print.
Now if he could only spend his life doing this,
everything would be alright.
At the laundromat.
And the knuckleschmucks are doing bong hits in the back.
Like, straight up blowing smoke all over the planet.
And Eve just wants to do her laundry.
Who are these anarchist people?
Ok, it’s California, but do we all have to
breathe weed smoke all day long?
Some of us like oxygen.
My teeth are self-whitening.
It’s the craziest freakin’ thing.
I mean, I could rub furniture stain on them
and they’d be pearly white in the morning.
I don’t know how it happened.
I used that light thingy once.
Now, I’m all animal instinct.
I just want to bite you.
Applying to become a super hero.
Not so hard!
And not in the face!
Give me that funky groove.
Now, shake it until you feel better.
Not sort of better,
I mean straight butter better.
You get me?
It’s the rhythm, dig?
The inside pocket.
The beat you feel inside your bones
that won’t let you sleep at night.