They drink Jack Daniels in Baton Rouge. Like Jack’s gut of memories, tightly curled, rips a demon with its sharp claws, rushing in to fill the void, there is a void in all of us, and that is the animal who knows us is us will always be us. Our shifting backwards in the dark. Put your tongue in his mouth, and you will know he has been a patient. The small room is sweltering. These children have no shoes. There should be shoes. There should be blues. There should be Vegas loosers for the booze. What is the bigger rush. Riding creativity in a taste for blood slips off the gallows. Or a sky with no gallows is not a sky.