the knees of my jeans
were damp
from crawling
on the grass beside a stucco wall
old Spanish houses
in California
stay cold inside
in case you didn’t know

the normally dry earth
still wet
from a rare rain
the cold seeping into my body
I look up and see the lambo
parked at the curb
if i run fast enough
i might be able to beat
farmer macgregor
and
his shot gun.

its hard to run in overalls
in case you didn’t know

i make my dash
jump into the car
like magnum
rev the engine
the keys having been on the visor
just in time
to hear the explosion
of firepower.

i gun it down the avenue
and begin to whistle.
today its
stardust memories
i’m proud of my whistle
its brings air to my lungs
an instrument always ready
nobody uses their instrument
but i do

i breathe the pain away
the thoughts of those i love
and
their endless
self indulgent ways
their narrative bordering boring
its so predictable
but
by whistling
i bring back the love to my heart
the engine rumbles under my feet
giving me confidence
to keep on trucking.

i ditch the Italian silliness
for something more practical
and
remind myself to be good
and
not let that poison of experience
hit my soul.

Remember, some poison
takes longer to leave the body
but leave it will
and
as I jump onto my motorcycle
and
head for Morocco
I flip the bird to the past.

so long 2014
as my dear Yves said, I looked forward to your demise.

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