from a foggy moor, i looked to toward the horizon and saw a small child silhouetted by distant city lights behind him. i squinted for a clearer vision as the cold wind howled and leaves blew between us. the child was small, likely just a toddler. he raised a hand waved and called something out to me that was lost in…

how come i look like william wallace riding a steed in battle whenever i whip the Telsa through the kansas city streets? a poet warrior weaving thru traffic, blotting at a barbecue drop on my cuff with a crisp bank note.

the wind whipped the dust and trash into a maelstrom in the street. people huddled under random awnings and pulled their children close. kerry kilos was back in town, and the furious wind seemed to announce his presence with authority. he walked down the exact center of the street, under a dusty ten-gallon. the…

he patted his pockets as he talked with a cigarette flipping at the corner of his mouth. kerry half-listened, un-engaged with his chin resting on his fist, and watched him search for a lighter. "you need a light, jim?" kerry asked, as he pushed a large cigar lighter across the desk. "thank you, sir" jim answered, as…

that's what the cavemen used to say to one another in nonsensical grunts and chest-drums...

moonlight ricocheted down the damp alley. he stood on the street just outside the shadows' reach...peering with strain, he struggled to make out a shape in the darkness. "kerry? is...is that you?" he called from the safety of the sidewalk. no answer...just a glinting flash from the chrome finish on kerry's .38

he looked over the rim of his sunglasses down at his whiskey glass, and gently turned it a couple times with his thumb and middle finger - making an oddly comforting sound as the glass tumbler slid against the hardwood. the young gentleman sitting across from him talked a little louder over the sound - "listen kerry,…

i bet it has some competitive benefit packages for sound though...

i believe it was simply a question...you must be projecting the bitch part.

press your little ear flush against my goddamn Telsa...you can listen to that for free, as long as you wipe your face grease off with a micro-fiber and don't mention or look at the birds in the trunk.

does it sound like twin cheeks pumping stink into my condo?

what about the sound file quality on spotify, hmm?

the way i brought the drop out the garage...you'd never know i graduated top of my class.

that's odd - i wouldn't wipe my ass with that thing...

most likely my fuggin whip will be the object of Fifth Ave's scorn, as it glides silently by and shits on hoods and farts on headlights.

what up, barrett? you just couldn't let me go, could you? this is what happens when an unstoppable force...meets an immovable object. you truly are incorruptible, aren't you? huh? you won't kill me...out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness. and I won't kill you...because you're just too much fun. i think you…

what if if i told you...that tom hanks and i got turnt up on a bottle of prison hooch?

my body - tangled in the twistings of this city's creeping substructure...in my basement apartment, ensnared and stuck in the concrete bones, and copper wire capillaries of "old town". i crane my neck to peer through the small rectangular window..."is that the sky" i wonder silently.

god damn right.

brian barret called me from a fucking blackberry, and asked to me return to quell flagging readership. so here i am, baby...