Sitting at the corner table of Slow Bar, letting fumes unfurl from my fingertips amid heated conversations exchanged beneath dim lights. I take another drag. Poison filling my lungs before I exhale up towards the halogen light overhead. Brian was mentioning something about the prowess of a Porsche GT2 but I was consumed by this long-missed act of placing the cigarette in my mouth drawing smoke before kissing it back into the air.
Small taps with my index finger fell ash into a tray and I give Lulu back her Camel Light. She smokes out of habit and addiction, paying little attention to the ritual; merely extracting her drug and dispensing of the vehicle that delivered it to her. Angered by this I greedily remove the cigarette pinched between her brown sugar colored fingers. My turn.
The cloud of toxins fills my lungs creating a reflex of cough but I suppress this instinct and exhale slowly, painting the air in brush strokes of fumes. Everyone orders another round while I sit listening to an obscure Greg Sage song knowing my wool sweater will stink come tomorrow. These are careless time and I am a reckless person. Everyone is well drunk and they have a long car rides home but not for me. I live down the street but take the odd way home, beneath the crumbling viaduct where homeless congregate and sit on furniture stolen from a nearby Goodwill.
Rounding a corner I grab lots of throttle, causing the back end to slide out violently-leaving a strip of rubber on the roadside. The wheel catches and the bike begins to highside. I ride out the shock wave that reverberates through the chassis and stabilize the motorcycle with more throttle.
I roar beneath the bridge, past the trash can fires knowing not what tomorrow brings but pretty sure my sweater will smell like cigarettes and I muse about the next time I'll breath fire.
Small taps with my index finger fell ash into a tray and I give Lulu back her Camel Light. She smokes out of habit and addiction, paying little attention to the ritual; merely extracting her drug and dispensing of the vehicle that delivered it to her. Angered by this I greedily remove the cigarette pinched between her brown sugar colored fingers. My turn.
The cloud of toxins fills my lungs creating a reflex of cough but I suppress this instinct and exhale slowly, painting the air in brush strokes of fumes. Everyone orders another round while I sit listening to an obscure Greg Sage song knowing my wool sweater will stink come tomorrow. These are careless time and I am a reckless person. Everyone is well drunk and they have a long car rides home but not for me. I live down the street but take the odd way home, beneath the crumbling viaduct where homeless congregate and sit on furniture stolen from a nearby Goodwill.
Rounding a corner I grab lots of throttle, causing the back end to slide out violently-leaving a strip of rubber on the roadside. The wheel catches and the bike begins to highside. I ride out the shock wave that reverberates through the chassis and stabilize the motorcycle with more throttle.
I roar beneath the bridge, past the trash can fires knowing not what tomorrow brings but pretty sure my sweater will smell like cigarettes and I muse about the next time I'll breath fire.
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