We hung out on the edge,
in the border towns,
creating havoc,
a little bit of mayhem,
injecting Boone’s Farm,
perusing the streets
with insurrection etched
into our skins,
crying acid rain.

Imbibed,
flying higher
than the highest kites
& fluttering in the wind,
we walked scarecrow-like,
against the grain.

And if you looked in our eyes,
you’d swear we were touched,
touched by more than
anything sacred,
not from above
but from far below,
in a place near Hell’s gates,
we doled out pain.