Might As Well Jump

I don’t know how it happened. It just did.
The shit was random, original. Life changing.

David Lee Roth needed a ride to his storage shed.
It was off of Ironwood Rd. He gave directions.
High kicks and screeches like my dad’s Impala
highlighted the way. His cellophane pants melted.

We survived on Dramamine, oranges, and flat Coke in a plastic cup.
The cup reminded me of kegs and fights.
Mr. Roth said, “I’m quitting these someday.”
He lit a Marlboro. The cerulean smoke
rose from the cherry. It was starving.
It swallowed him whole without regards for the seatbelt.