Written by Wolves

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