Chilean Nights

Your friend has a clock in his car that he never bothered to fix. It begs 9:13 but I know it must be around 1. You are an endless supply of beer. Cans seem to appear in your arms like stars you pulled down.
You are an idiot.
But you gave me a bed, a room, and a dusty drive. I barely understand you but you are quick to laugh. The bed is lumpy with covers scattered, but at least you stay in your own room. I have not paid even close to my share.

We tear around back roads and then lonesome walks on deserted lake walk-ways. The air tastes sweet, like wine and orange juice.

You are a friend of a friend of a friend, and I hinge on trusting you. The words you speak are barely spanish. But my gut nodded while my heart squeaked a small protest. In the end I always curl my toes over the edge, cross my fingers and jump. Luckily the net was there this time.

Stars and cellphone towers hang in the air.

3 stray dogs wander around a gym while a comedy festival breathes on. The air is thick and I quickly add to it.

I dream of my dog and wake up sad.

How many places will I try to remember, try to implant before the fleeting second is gone and I am out on the road again.