First day of spring, a couple years back. written in the style of the time

we hit the street, a pack of animals on old Indian land
the spring of 03
halfway through 20 w/ more friends than fingers
wore through one pair of boots and at least as many legs
in pursuit of the american dream, punk rock or ponce de leon
-somesuch nonesence-
crooked forties in brown and under sleeve
when we were smart we had an extra
when we were poor we'd divide flasks
take to the streets
sunday through thursday

took it too the streets

'it' of aggression, impatience
petulant and rumbling
general hooliganry
breaking glass for the sound,
kicked walls to spite our toes
split knuckles to bruise wood, forsaking both in spit

creamed at nobody in particular but maybe the moon
barking something awful like rock n roll
picking fights w/ shopkeeps and fights unrealized
ripping songs from the pages of highschool yearbooks,
from off the walls of their parents house
songs we made up
songs w/ no names

stealing things of no value from lawns and windowsills
smashing our way through alleyways

we'd find
bench, sand
a tree that would hold us

it would start to rain and we'd duck into construction sites
head full of stars and acid, vodka and dreams
the doubt of our parents expectations

we'd sit
and someone would say (but not blurt)
'i think i might be gay'
and the rest of us would listen and
someone would start
i didn't used to ber a good person'
and tell us
'when i was in the gang i had to shoot this guy'
the rest of us would listen

and someone says 'I love you' coz he's drunk enough and
the rest of us would nod
and soon enough after somebody would fart, someone would start a fire,
the cops would shoo us home
all night diners
would beckon
calling
for coffee and potato hash
jukes w/ jim morisson
biscuits w/ gravy
and with the sun on our backs
we hit the streets