eleven.

my dude nate lives in out on lake tahoe,
he's also an apprentice at a tattoo studio out there.
that's pretty cool.
he's from the woodsly goodness,
and we've known each other a while,
and he's on the short list of folks i actually want to talk to.
i thinks that's because he knows what's up.
and that's kind of a big deal, y'feel me?
like,
he knows about the rules, neighbors.
like,
he knows you've got to
just be dope or F* right off;
and that means disregarding all perfect tens on a scale of one through ten,
and going one louder, fresher, and harder,
like,
all the way to eleven,
because doing anything else means you're doing it wrong.
so,
what's the best way to doo-doo that elementary philosophical hottness jauns,
and simultaneously invoke irony?
get a solid gold magic space crystal eleven tattoo,
and take a sh!tty picture of it.
obvi.
check the teleport:

mmmhmmm.
anyway,
he's in the club now,
and i expect great things from him.
he's a dedicated, driven, and determined worthy warrior poet,
i'm psyched i got to see him,
happier still that he got a P.M.A affirmation on his arm.
now and forevermore
he's going to look down at the fresh IX and be reminded
that good enough is never enough.
c'mon.
but, like, from his perspective...looking down?
IX?
nobody?
ah, well.
rules is rules, either way;
never quiet, never soft.....