“Goodnight, asshole,” John says. I see the meaty ghost of his shadow collapse below street-lit window blinds. I hear him thud. He groans like a dying moose across the black room.
“Goodnight, John-Boy,” I sing, smiling, as goofy as a melodic little girl on the prairie. We’re plastered in Pittsburgh with Otis, again.
Otis isn’t finished drinking in his cellar bar. He cracks the capped head off another doomed beer bottle & gulps the suds with professional endless thirst.
John, on the other hand, snores relentlessly on the floor of Otis’ spare room upstairs; a cornered, stabbed, lung-leaking, amplified, pulsating frog. I’m spinning like dreams in a syrupy swamp.