“Hot Urine”

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“Hot Urine”

Oh, the years in between,

then and now.

But, how?

Traveling from Boston to Miami.

From Miami to Key West.

At tradition’s behest.

Appropriately dressed.

A briefcase full of booze.

New Balance shoes.

A plush animal stolen from a Walpole Kegger.

Kennel beneath the plane, in cargo.

Chompah!

Midnight Rompah.

Chicanery ensued.

Krispy Kreme paper hats.

Suspicious fun.

Arrived before we left,

bereft of sobriety,

and

propriety.

Miami Airport Car Rental Center.

A Trojan Hearse.

 

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Full of dead youth,

not for lack of trying.

 A bachelorhood dying,

for spite and gripe,

and a nasty fuck of fiancée,

that later enlightened me.

Not all stories have a happy ending,

neither do massages.

Messages crossed,

and we’re off!

160 miles to where the birds land,

where the pelicans can,

Pelican Landing.

Key West grandstanding.

So demanding.

Three hours, and twenty-two minutes,

according to MapQuest.

 

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First stop, packy.

Pile in backy.

How does one decrease the ETA to a more palatable time?

No bathroom breaks.

Just groupthink,

and speed limit skill.

Don’t spill.

Six cases of beer.

Beer in, beer out.

Bucket brigade.

Don’t drink the Kool-Aid!

Hot Urine!

Pass the cuppy to the left one time,

shotgun launch.

Highway becomes whizzway.

Solo cups,

filled up,

passed up.

Returned empty.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

Practice.

How do you get to Key West?

Debauchery.

All that time saved,

ETA decreased.

What does one do with the excess?

Why, you spend it wisely of course,by stopping at the first Adult Store available.

Twenty-five cent peeps.

Screen down, screen up.

Jizz mopper at attention.

Not a mention,

of the tension,

released.

Novelty:

A bumpah stickah slapped on the back of the great white whale.

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Many horns accompanied us on our surge to Mordor.

Solos used, beers consumed.

When did we get there?

We got there before we arrived.

The lot imbibed.

Boston Pride.

Hot Urine ride.

All over the sides.

On the Hunt for Freeto Pies.

Not denied.

Returned the white whale to the rental deal,

it had more of a mustard sheen,

our pelican queen.

Bladder camaraderie.

Landing on a Key West Beach.

Chompah, unleashed.

Megaphones, and Hemingway homes.

Discocock.

Duval Block.

Papa Joe found his soul,

at Teasers.

Met Derek,

and his mullet.

Broke all the rules,

of the pool.

Within twelve minutes of arriving.

Got launched from Pelican Landing.

Cash withstanding.

Megaphones demanded.

Eat my ass!

Eat my ass!

Perhaps, in a different quarter the response would have been more acceptable.

Blue Marlin Motel.

 

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Mexican Wrestling Masks.

Sunburns.

Swingers.

Kid Rock routine boombox,

while Sarah Smiles played her bass in tune.

Naked hangs.

Stolen bikes.

“Wouldn’t fuck you for a nickel!”

Boy, did that incite.

 

Memory forgets.

 

Oh, the years in between,

then and now.

But, how?

Traveling from Boston to Miami.

From Miami to Key West.

Those guys were the best,

some are fiercely missed.

Traveling down the highway of life,

a fellowship of launched piss.

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“In Search of…”

 

 

 

 

 

“In Search of…”

 

Trading on complacency,

time’s drudgery wounds hope.

Lost in a busy department store,

parents on a different floor.

The escalator eats extremities,

nicked rubber handrails provide instabilities.

Watching step panels morph into disappearing ground.

An escape to the shoe store,

sitting with the clerk as the metal sizer finds the hole in a worn tube sock.

Folding space, a hypothetical method of interstellar travel.

Or, you could simply put your hands over your eyes and curl up fetal like.

Many people are gone before they leave.

“Sojourn”

 

“Sojourn”

 

Perhaps it’s time to start a journey?

Set a course and quell the yearning.

 

Unattainable horizons all around.

First step, next step, hit the ground.

 

Malaise distracts the current route.

Broken compass, travel’s moot.

 

Awake confused, this life’s a dream.

Wayward ways someday redeem.

 

Strings on fingers provoke recall.

Remembering a must above it all.

 

Switch position, lost at sea.

I am looking, I and me.

 

It often feels quite solitary,

Nonetheless, the blows I parry.

 

A testament to stubborn will,

I nary tolerate a life born still.

 

Some souls thrive on things kinetic,

Away I go, in truth, prophetic.

 

Left fear on dock as I embark,

The rest placed in my life-worn ark.

 

Once adrift the waves will take,

Away from me for my own sake,

 

The plot, the line, the guide, the course.

Unknown shores perhaps the worse?

 

One can’t say without the chance,

If better ways will entrance.

 

For ways not traveled,

Paths not sowed.

 

Remain quite raveled,

Hence, unknown.