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My brain is the crack of a bumbling hero keeping time in broken bones. looking forward to the day this dog comes forth hollering agains the hands that held it's swollen head for years and days without thanks. without mention. without anything more than the basic recognition that he'd been alive, really.

If you could call it a life.

And i would, if only for the sake of argument. if only for the image rattling round of steve mcqueen drinking his way through the beds of a hundred starlets before dying alone. before ending a legend in the minds of every boy whose felt the road circle underneath the wheels of a two-ton steel wet dream.

Because i'm neither. i'm just a scrap. a rat-a-tat tapper with delusions of grandeur i wouldn't trade for the keys to old liberty (even if a life on the highway was calling me).

I haven't fucked that many and i haven't killed a man. but i've seen enough to keep me guessing that when that time comes for my bark to bite, i'll be snarling at the ready.