Jenny and Malcolm
lie in a field
on a hill
straddling the countryside
at midnight.
The grass tickles
their toes and noses
as it flows up
getting the stars.
Jenny passes the roach
and sings the blues.
Malcolm casts
a long line of smoke,
fishing for meteors.

"You think
there's anyone
out there?"
Jenny asks.

"I knew a kid,"
Malcolm says,
bobbing his head
to Hendrix,
"18, in Philly,
went to grab
a bag of dope,
but his buddy's brother,
he was nine at the time,
wouldn't go,
so he had to go,
thought it would be quick
so he brought him
but forgot the cash
and tried to dash,
but the kid wasn't so fast.
They caught him
and laid him to rest
with his head on the curb
and teeth in the gutter.
After that, he said
he couldn't be the same,
forever paranoid,
society pushing him
towards suicide
or addiction.
Desensitized
he decided
he wasn't made for this place
so he got high
and rode a cloud
out beyond
where we stare now."