i often have to remind myself to
eat, a far cry from my childhood and
thicker teenage years. wandering
home from the frolic, a crater emerges
where my 7-11 once stood like a
drunk beacon, its charred remains
tinging the acrid atmosphere.

no hotdog in the cold tonite. no italian
job, gone are the boner pills. that block
of cahuenga is much darker, now that
the buzzballz have exploded and
melted.