Brothers of the A.M.

A purple click slicked as the rain falls.
The bmv 750 shoot off the roads like yuppie wildfire. We all know
You shouldn’t fucking punch it when the oil hits the water hits the road.

My phone’s blowing up. My brain’s shooting up possibilities.
Scattered. A wildfire. North of Rutherford. North of Yountville mental.

I got 6 cases of wine in my room.
Like I’m going to drink it all. (I will eventually)
The knock on the door is my liver.

The texts illuminate the ’84 Celica gt. It’s a blush bluish white.
Dodging the traffic north from SF. Like these fuckers have never seen rain.

There’s another. This time a Mercedes. A white one. Drive slower my brother.
A race machine doesn’t make you a racecar driver.
A giant cock doesn’t make you a fucker. Giant ears don’t make you a listener.

There’s a ringing. Resonating.
Someone missing.

6:50 are every morning some poor bastard starts his jeep Cherokee
To go to work.
5 times a week I hear him. As I go to work. Aren’t we both fucked?

I wish I could have a moment with this guy and listen to his problems.
Brothers of the a.m.

Brothers of the a.m. 10/11/08