I scam rascals of an extra dimension.

I scam rascals of an extra dimension, tranq gun for premonitory feelings, crapulous and goring, I ride. Time to people them skies with blokes and fish hat tangerine calluses. All stories I tilled under and told to me and switched ’gators, my stomach turning hit and jump a dirt bike, dangling from a tree and throwing firelit paper crumples down on our neighbors. Not to shake it but there was a candle time when boyhood friend Danny Roemer and I built a startling tree house at the edge of the road, took boards and hammered them into branches, gambling on blindness of cops. We stashed everything secret and meaningful to us up there, everything to make fire and some money too. That was our stuff, and we liked to hold it. Once we set the street we used to play on on fire, turned Danny’s lawnmower over and opened the cap, covered asphalt in gasoline and popped a match…watched from the bushes while the elder McGuiggan boy (wearing a leather jacket) stomped the flames out, looking all around for who did it. We sunk deeper into the bushes, held each other tight for laughter. Should have known I would get these memories back, auld things and actions whipping by as my wired home-visit approaches. Got to see my brain crease in the mirror. Will I visit the Granfortuna graves again?