Dust scored south, kneading endless city blocks. Central District, high-riser right, red brick redwood tower, orthogonality and facade.

Bowling doubtless, in my head, out my rictus, in my cage, up my spine, and in my head,

again. And, again, after non-automatic aluminum alloy locks left in lock became unlocked, my place penetrated, desecrated by your own, ol’ Jack LeQuinn (always with friendly winking, whisky drinking, pool boy plinking), and locked again, animal inside, all outside, animal inside.

So inside, the animal incited. Once scored south, scored scores over, now settles its score with your curious ol’ Jack LeQuinn, rent and lease, the animal unleased. Billows and breath and an admirable assortment of recyclable glasses and plastics. Tin foil tubberware paper clips and ash trays. Bottle cap bottle necks, revving 9,000, rpm and redline. Filthy shades and filthy fades and I’m out, papa Jack is out, high-rise misfit, half-there dimwit, fading away in filthy shades.

Redline, black expanse.

Starless.