Staring past the wheel-braker cemented to the slope-end of the six space car lot, he condemned the non sensical-scrawl he’d painted on an already used canvas the week before as a, ‘Sour-mash hash-brown haze from a 4am breakfast under intoxication at the local choke`n puke’, whilst listening to ‘hymn to freedom’, again.

Flicking his cigarette butt off the balcony, he walked back inside grabbing the small plastic Frenchman attached to his car keys that he'd kept as a memento from drunken nights playing piano in the backstreets of Paris, and getting chased by bull-whip yielding rat owning punks along the Seine with Dexter his pet mouse, and left. He was restless.

His old Buick`56 rumbled to a start, all cranked and booming, like a distant Tornado, one of fifty-six along I-65 to creep up and touch down one fine day, on the road to Nashville. He never would've made it if not for the over-pass, scared as hell, whole car moving, sideways, in neutral, hand break on, dust, leaves, pieces of fence, pieces of road . And the cracks in the rear view mirror widened. All peppermint green inside, dark trim, and a rusted back window shelf where the carpet had blown out doing ninety, all four windows down to ‘Suga-Foot-Stomp’ on a road trip back from Mississippi.

New Orleans was long gone, six years now - hash nights among hookers with sweet St George, swapping stories of each others homelands and selling blood for beer money and shots - long before she was swept away by Katrina's scorn.

But this evening, the Louisville sky ticked to the coming autumnal breeze, and the lowering sun cast long shadows on rusted pick-up trucks pulled up - leaving six year old Lolita's dressed in pink for dance classes, an hour of: ‘that’s right’ and ‘do that again’. Picked up at seven, by ranting ‘shaggy-haired’ Ireeni - takes ya home tucks'ya up… goodnight! Single Mommas preach from porches – ‘No trust in man, man's Devil-man now, leave'ya ass, break'ya heart, fuck'ya till ya burst out whiskey-chil'’ - Never cry HELP, millions cope, turn off your air-conditioning - open your doors and scream. ‘My life as a cicada, people don't dig the rhythm of ma' wings, eat drink fuck buzz eat drink fuck buzz eat drink fuck DEAD!’

Time for a drink. 'Club Reno' otherwise known as Jake's, deep plush red cushioned booths low backed and easy, a mirrored stage with a stained brass pole that didn't reach the ceiling and two ripped pool tables, not like L.A., on Sunset, those were fancy! Jake's was ...rolling a dice.
Like New York had been, living in the village. Unforgettable characters emerged through the nights, rantings of grandeur or self-loathing, sometimes genius, as in St Marks Square... hearing ‘Howl’ read out over a bowed headed congregation, performed from behind his infamous beard and spectacles the author paid tribute to a dearly departed friend, and whiskies afterwards at Arthur's Tavern, listening to ragtime, sharing philosophies on life, too half-cut to string a sentence together but sane enough to share a cab across town with Australia's sweetheart... and she was.

‘Evening Jake'
Jake abruptly turned, reached for a half clean glass, two ice cubes and pouring Black-bush brim - high placed it on a napkin and smiled 'How are ya?, Nice to see you again, enjoy!'
Jake had stood behind his bar for over forty years, and though small and now frail he was not to be taken lightly, there were rumours of what he kept behind the bar as well as the full figured pole dancers you'd daren't look at let alone fight!

‘Hear ya had some trouble the other night, is it true?...I mean..’ Jake continued, ‘Considerin' havin' waited half ya' damn life to meet the man, and get to share the stage with him - and he opens up a can o' whoop-ass on ya' uh? Somethin' bout ya smokin' near him? Leavin your truck runnin' while he's wailin'? And outside? Damn man, always thought of him as the hard livin' blues singin' wild man! Well ...by the looks of ya, ya seem all right now, I mean.. maybe Idols shouldn't have to get off from their pedestal just so ya can say ya shook their hand, know what 'am sayin'?...what 'ya think Divine?’

Divine sat side-saddle on the far end barstool, her too short, too tight purple sequined skirt straining around her full black thighs, not enough to shade her panties.. the way she liked it.
‘Mmm'Mmm you ain't lyin'.’ she mumbled sucking down a straw-full of brandy while shifting her weight onto her other ass cheek.
‘'Course, I never minded gettin' off on anything for anybody! know what am sayin' suga luv'...?’
Bursting into laughter, Divine hauled one of her large double D tits out of her C-cup bra and licking her finger, wiped off some blue cue chalk from around her nipple. ‘My oh my! I guess this is a far cry from where ya come from huh?...with ya queen and ya fancy accent!’ she giggled.. ‘Still..., nice boots!’

for those who may not be accustomed to reading - try this.... Next Great Nothing