| You can tell by my tires that not everybody who’s has driven with me is still |
| alive |
| Also, that I like my drinks neat, bottled and in the bus stop |
| Also, that we’re drowning in precinct paper, department store floor plans and |
| applications to the moon |
| And we can change the color of our snot from gifted to heart attack and tell |
| you about ashes but where all these angels come from smelling like the |
| cigarette that fells |
| And whys the man on the same side of these headlights freezing up, |
| if got nothing to say at my funeral I’ll speak on your behalf |
| Heroin in my smile, mountain niggas flat land robbery among some things on my |
| mind the last store running and name the shit after life Friday to the filter, |
| I’m a talk tale on earth |
| But here’s to the angel that never appeared to America in the night of dog |
| paddle in the batch of hangovers looking for a home you know a lot when you |
| live this long |
| It’s my and offensive speed hold a pair of rambling dice |
| Got unique cameras from young souls that say shut up about our city |
| Here to crash over a post, my |
| The streets teeth them to pieces and there’s reservoir art of the face of |
| stragglers and say bad news back home and say we gotta grow up on his behalf |
| Stumble back to a car full of last standing truth is still but still liquor |
| missed the street you should be proud of me |
| I’m a mural man almost organized from everyone of my that wake up on last on |
| morning if it was worth it |
| I’m three decades homie, the reservoir art is all I ever see |
| You know I’m two thousand miles from my first Friday night you know I really |
| survived |
| Maybe I wrote my first poem for no reason man |
| California is cold |