My throat is raw tonight.
I took some Nyquil about ten minutes ago, the store brand kind, the cherry flavored kind, the kind that I bet would taste good on ice cream kind, but my throat is still raw.
I got caught in the rain today, driving back from Oscoda, with a pizza from Hungry Howies in the back seat, it was a square pizza, it didn't taste all that good, it was really raining heavy at times, one person pulled over, the one person wasn't me, but there have been times when I have pulled over because of the rain, or the tap dancing deer(s).
I should take some more Nyquil, or a shot of cheap booze, and pretend I'm Bukowski, no wait, not Bukowski, and pretend I'm Kerouac, no, not Kerouac, and pretend I'm one of those beat poets that I can never remember the name of, the ones that lived in squalor, no, the ones that thrived in squalor, the ones who chain smoked, and drank cheap red wine, and did a little reefer, and popped a few pills, and tried a little horse, and slept on the floor of their best friends apartment when they got kicked out of their own for playing Charlie Parker too late and too loud, or for clogging up the plumbing when they got all paranoid and flushed the manuscript they'd been working on for three years, (three fucking years man) down the toilet, or for having sex, with a girl, or a guy, or a group, or for being free man, that man hates when you're free.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by bad haircuts and paisley neckties
I think I'd like some soup now please, maybe a little cream of mushroom, thanks.
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