bag of cookies blues

Feeling fat and bloaty
from all the chips and sugar been consumin',

had to let out some gas
on an 'oh-so-deserving' motorist this mornin.

Gliding along,
pleased as punch,
through dewy AM chill,
backpack on, homemade lunch.

Settled in quite luxurious,
for the dawn's spinning lovefest,
at cadence
110 rpm-ish.

The peace,
it was disturbed,
from behind
angry exhaust-full fanfare,
some poof-peter's pecker,
guised as lil' cherry sportster.

Peter puffed up his 8V's,
had to just see,
if he could take our quite knoll
at double posted speed.

Now, knowing the terrain
like the back of her suspension,
i perked up an ear
in mischievious rutty anticipation ...

"screeeeach"

~ ahh... the sweet sound of red-light recognition.


Taking cat's casual time,
strolling past freshly hatched fish-skiddies,
I sauntered right in front of our little hero's blue sportsTurdy.

With a wee flip of disdainful tail,
nestling myself at hood level,
in the space left between,
sportsTurd's stop light skids
and the rumbling, grumbling truck
of Jose's "Happy Gringo LawnFix"

Having the brown blood's la raza stir,
I nodded greet at Jose in his rear view.
He nodded 'hey' in neutral,
and so I, to my plotting, did return.

In such situations,
the question always be,
on which portion of peter's porsche
should we send the pee?

Patiently, for red to swing another color,
a look back at the sportsTurd
revealed an off the charts trite-meter.

lil-pecker-boy-porschey,
not only hair-do was he fondling,
but yacking and smacking
lips upon his cell phoney-talking.

"this be just normal you, ain'it?"
asked I in awe, silent-like.

And i shit you not,
yup, this is where it get's hot,
peter-poof pounded that poor accelerator
and revved that little turd car like he was the terminator.

You know the engine type,
- all throaty and meat-eating.
The kind that just out of spite,
wanna stab the owner right in the eyes
for such hallow ego-feeding.

I couldn't stop myself ~ i almost really tried ...
so,
looking straight at 'im,
and mouthing words,
louder than shoulda -

"PILE OF SHIT, lil' brudda."
Smiled,
then turned,
to see stop light go greeny,
and catch Jose's reflected,
matching evil mad grinny.

A grab of Jose's bumper,
pushing aside rake and hand mower,
Jose punched that fukker,
and off we sputtered,
in a swirly, burly push of smog out the tail blower.

And our little boy's sportsTurd-blue,
man-hood purchased fresh and new,
stalled as he stomped
to match the advance,
of Jose and my's wicked bike/car dance.

Sweet acceleration,
up and over freeway fling,
me, out of saddle and passing,
with help from Jose's Mexican Madison sling.
~