Drunk.

The stars are out tonight.
How fitting - I would say,
if we were in a convertible, and the world was our oyster
and we were climbing on the backs of the mountains
throwing our shit to the wind
and asking it, just begging it, to challenge us.
They shine for us - is all you would say,
and we'd clang glasses of illegal substance together
in our car
as we howl at the night and celebrate the stars and the moon
as if they were our brothers, and we were all traveling together
like Jack Kerouac, or some crazy shit like that - I'd say
and you'd agree, with some philosophic or theologic words
that I couldn't begin to write down for you, since you're
the only one who spouts that stuff out well enough
for both of us.
But we'd be flying down the road
with the world, the road, and boxes and boxes of wine at our fingertips
just challenging God to slow us down,
or asking Him to pick us up -
It didn't matter, because we felt Him with us, anyway,
you, me, and Jesus in the backseat of a camaro,
toasting boxes of wine to the moon.
Yeah - I say, I can dream, can't I?
And you put your arm around me and tell me,
brother -you say, we're already there.