Drunk Cops

I saw a strange thing last night. Actually, a lot of strange things. I’ll say this: I got pretty fucked up.

Everything was just a little askew. Stuff like fake traffic signs like, you know, speed limits like “Yes” “Closer” and “≥ Fast.” One said, “Slow! Cats at Work.”  A stop sign just said, “Fuck You” instead of “Stop.”

Objects had no functions, like maps with no names, ceramic basketballs, and inverted pockets.

Jazz bands played to no one on the boulevard.

Drunk cops patrolled the streets.

My friend Mandy and I cruised around Logan Square all liquored up and fucked out of our minds with a few cans of spray paint, a bag of cheap beers, and more reckless abandon than common sense. We tore up the avenue like a couple of hot fucks, leaving behind a disease of painted obscenities, piss and crushed cans, a few splats of vomit with a dash or two of blood, and the wild echoes of our shouts of intoxicated bliss. The people we passed pressed their eyes to the ground, and for good reason, too.

A ways into the night, we stopped for a smoke and parked our bad asses on the curb to give our sea legs a well deserved rest. For some reason my mind began to slide a little and I began to imagine God as this egg, just a regular egg, like a regular chicken egg, and I turned it around in my head for what seemed to me like a while. Then I said to Mandy, I’m thinking about eating God. And she sort of looked at me through the hair and smoke in her face and said, Like for breakfast?

And I said, Yeah.

And we danced in the street like two old stoned birds.


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