hip injury

we walk past warehouses whose old must smelling of nouveau riche
motionsense lights flicker past the BQE on the way to a bar with
tequila in a bag leapfrogs hands in the dark excusing through ironic
t-shirt parade stagger change directions meander through ballfields looking
for the last tagger

light tipper for 7 buck beers
yell a complicated conversation in the magma of neon noise give my girl
cheekkisses and point out jukesong
the unknown band was 7 bucks and we chuckled even
the no-cover band was awkard as we angled to
the door leaving

playing arcades i haven't practiced
bad investments last night we were here (not LAST night ya dig) high on PKs talking PKD
to the filmmaker from spain and the west coast producer
drinking homebrew stout, bullshit and jameson
pocketing glossy flyer cards like the promises we made to make
our way out

quiet outside in the snow but it's
actually the first warm night of spring
stumbling boots trace mandalas into the park grass