(Venture Inn)

The men crowd in open shade like wraiths of the blue collar bar sitting drinking spitting and char stained skin and tongue.

Disfigured pale of middle age and molten lifestyle. Mouth breathing Picasso bust.

Smoke billows through yellow veils over the tarred canvas shoulders.

A few mingle and stumble about the earth as if drunken toddlers. Skin of ghosts, ghosts of the fathers and the holy holy spirits.

Eyes of worn, with scarlet spider webs.

The demon of man stares straight back with black pupils.

The hearts are tired and dirty.

Life was created in the valleys. 

  It blew up onto the hills on the old terrors, 

the old lusts, the old despairs. 

That's why you must walk up the hills 

so you can ride down.