We hit some bars by my place. We stayed in the Burgundy Room. It was good drinking with Mick. The bar was full so we sat at a table and talked about great, dead men.

We moved to the bar. Mick was sitting next to a huge black man straight out of 1930s Harlem. He was smooth. They were talking low to each other. I was sitting on the corner next to Mick. I knew what they were doing but I didn’t know what they were doing it over. Mick leaned over to me.

“Hey, man. Let me borrow twenty bucks, I’m a little short for this.”

“For what?”

1930 opened his big palm under the bar. I looked under casually. A large black egg of hash. Mick looked at me and nodded. I gave him a twenty, the deal was made under the bar, and Mick was happy with the deal. He kept giving me sly looks. Back at the booth we talked to a couple of girls but nothing was going to happen with them. Before we got to my place, he hit an ATM and gave me a twenty. Upstairs he sat on the box and broke the hash apart, drunk. He looked like a giant squirrel.

“Man. A hundred and twenty five bucks for a two golf ball chunk.”

“That’s a good deal?”

He kept breaking the hash, “Hell yeah, it is.”

Meg rose to his lap and sniffed the hash. She sneezed and crawled under my chair. Mick mixed in some of the egg with some weed and rolled it. He lit the end and inhaled. He held it out to me. I took a hit.

“You don’t get high that much, huh?”

“Not really,” I passed it back.

He took another hit and handed it back over.

“You’ll be good and high tonight.”

“Fuck it,” I said, “When in Rome.”

We heard gunshots and he laughed.

out

up

anywhere but this prison cell of cement and drainpipes

I'm breathing through a ventilation system stolen from the man down the hall with loud lungs and toes that tap the rhythm of the sewer running through here

I am coated in grease

the kind you claw from your cheeks

with gloved hands and blood red acrylics

I've never been the kind of girl who sticks wax in her ears I've always loved the sound of the city

but I'm getting sick of your pity and the pain that comes from girls screaming your name in the moonlight while you're moaning mine

we lost too much time moving in

my skin has sunken bits which you have hidden inside deflated balloons with memories of drunken fools and the days when you first loved me

the ceiling is nothing but bank notes and the fan is spinning hot air how could the wind be so stagnant there is no translation for the cold in this desert

your cuticles are stuffed with pine needles your liver has been stung by bumblebees and elm trees have never leaned northerly

and nothing ever grew green until you met me

the walls have always been concrete but we have learned the secret to separating water from wine and what the clock tells isn't time it's just when the sun will rise

there's only one window but for all we know there could be twenty

because our eyes are oil paint and our wiring has always been exposed copper

I release my saltwater from a dropper and the acid of your saliva crawling through my tear ducts has burned holes in my purgatory

the defense is always guilty of something but I was prosecuted for the wrong crime

I'm not protesting my confinement I just wish to redefine my sin

from murder to melancholy

all I'm asking is a view of the sky

cause there clocks mean nothing to me

and I like to watch time tick by

I headed north towards Scottsboro and along the way I saw the finest of people and bought the cheapest of liquor. I stopped at a rest stop about a mile down the road from home. Avoiding conversation as much as I could but was forced to start some after all my map was out of date. Excuse me sir, could you point me towards the road to Scottsburo, Al?" I asked a kind man with his little girl in his grip. She was the cutest thing with her spiked hair and dirty shoes. He replied to me a few seconds later after looking both ways.

"Yeah, Scottsburo! Follow up the road about three hours. Why is a lady like you headed that way anyway, there isn't much there?"

I waved to the little girl and in return a chocolate smeared smile. "Thank you so much mister. I'm headed there to visit an old friend."

"Good luck!"

I gave a sideways wave while starting back towards my old worn out Toyota Camry. It was my first car and I was intending on selling her but I fell in love with the way she was. I was used to the chipped paint and the smell of aged leather. She was mine all mine and she ran just fine. I started her up and headed towards Scottsboro again. I slid in a disc I picked up at Second and Charles a few months back. The band Fuel isn't very big now but I still love listening to them. A couple of hours down the road I saw a sign for Scottsboro. Only a few miles and bridge away. I started to crack the windows I could smell the breeze that drifted across the Tennessee river. I was home, and home had never smelt better. I thought how silly of me to just start off like this without cash and a map, but knowing that I was almost there assured me that it was oh so worth it! I was over the bridge and a few miles down the road still listening to Fuel when arrived. Finally in Scottburo, this rusty old small town had so much to offer. Not many people would give it a chance. They'd just drive on through like the people were nothing. I arrived a block away from where my parents used to live. I said hello to the gatekeeper and made my way through the cemetery. My old friend Kyle rested there, six feet underneath a polished gravestone.

Where am I heading? The question queried... My Brain and heart in a unexpected dance of nuances responded with the the answer... I am pointed towards happiness. I desire to pursue fulfillment... I wish to travel head long into the oblivion of passion, desire and the road I am intended to be on! I derailed, and for a moment lost hope and direction...now my journey is clear and I confidently March forward!