Scream of the Midnight Silence, Dylan still dead.

 

A bit of finger noodling and the Curse of the Hambino, good for a line of talk, a cold bottle of diet soda, and a resting of the footie-parts.  Dylan is, for all intents and purposes, still quite dead, that D Bizzle, apple of my eye, and I was thinking last year beloved Uncle Tony, this year Hewitt, and then boom, blindsided.

D Bizzle.  Exuent with flourish.

A breath of east wind, leaves are turning brown,

the whore open a coke bottle with her ass cheeks.

An angry black man, lying face down.

A little while older,

a duller composure,

of life,

a quiet soldier.

And all our deeply painful losses,

but to please the bosses.

Dignity the only currency we spend,

as we bend to pick our dog-end.