I pee like Jack Kerouac's fat ghost
and kill myself faster
than ever before,
for good or ill.
My earrings stink,
but I still go to the movies
and listen to Bob Dylan
while I walk there
down 3rd avenue
and down three years
ago.
I see a cat
in the distance,
and I wonder where
I will be in seven years,
if I'll be alive or dead.
Then I get distracted by
a pretty gal before she opens her mouth,
revealing good teeth,
and a dumb laugh.
The judging a book by the cover
floods my side of town,
which chooses to carry
my Kerouac coffee
with me.