Nevada Free City

He sat there with a more or less toothless grin, the few teeth

still bouncing around in his mouth stained by cheap red coyote

wine, his face unshaven and dry, sitting in a gutter in Navada

city, his eyes werent well, his liver was worse. All he had to

his name was a song about the troubles he lived and lovers hed

lost. The moon came up that night and burned a new hole in his

shirt, and the heat of the summer in the desert hinted this was

just the night's sun. His skin was that of an old leathery

indian and his heart was that of an amputee holding a dear john

in a meadow in the south, in the war.

His thoughts tricked each other, one thought led to another and

that thought was saying the preceding was bullshit.

When the dirt of an alley became the norm, he knew he wasnt a

hero, he knew he wasnt comin up again, not in this life. All he

had left to do was chase the corner and fall asleep, and when I

say fall I mean it quite literaly, falling harder into sleep

than someone would think such a gentle proccess could be

captured.

He sank into a sweaty mexican death-slumber, the kind he knew when he

was young and farming in the far far south, in the desert,

didnt grow much more than dirt but some how him and the

mexicans found enough scratch to pick up enough tequila, in

a clay jug, to heal their dry hands and cracked knees. This was

that sweaty drunks sleep, this time it was wine, but that night

sun was hot enough to shine on TJ aswell.

When he woke up he was dead and his skin was young,Who needs

a grave when Navada City is free.