Say what you want, but all I see is…dragon scale gloves.
Pretentious shit, blah blah.
Sometimes I like to feel the smooth edge of your backhand, hard.
Blah blah blah and also roller derby.
“Dear Dad: you gave me that Jack Karouac book when I graduated college and now all I care about is distances traversed, miles an hour, the geography of despair and coffee and nonsense and beauty, of punk rock and luggage and grime and sugar and young love. You fucked up. Love, Al.”
A fair representation.