Pizza party heart attack, twelve beers beat down.

Bread napkins concrete landing, log jammer video collection.

Thrown of empty bottles, dirt floor bunk bed.

Gonna get a job in agriculture.

Guns drawn in the kitchen. Liquor bottle book shelf. Christmas light ambiance.

You worked there for four years and the punishment was to run the loading dock. Nobody knew that the loading dock was your sweet spot. It was the only place where all the cigarettes could get smoked and all the questions of life could get answered. The loading dock never gives up its dead. Tell that story another day. Now is not the time.

Now, however, is the time for broken dreams and scraped up water bottles. Mind made. Bed made. Hand made.

Be grateful. Stay hungry. Dog kennel day dream. Cracked ceramics basement kiln. Get em from that little shop on seventh.

Radio mic. You’re late. Don’t come in without your name tag.

All I really want to do is tell a story from start to end. Oh how I dream of locking myself in some wilderness retreat with a stack of paper, a typewriter and an endless supply of coffee and cigarettes.

Get back to work.