scoring around

"hey, like the goal?" 

"yeah, it was a nice one, i guess" 

my bottle of coke was empty 

and laying by the tree and 

i had kerouac by my hands. 

willy was there, 

kicking and screaming 

all over the field, 

gladly amused by his progress 

and his abilities overall,

surrounded by people 

that are not as good. 

"c'mon, c'mon, guys, let's kill!"

he screamed to the team, 

"two is over, man, is three!" 

and he ran across the field, 

celebrating his third goal. 

testosterone was a hell of a drug

 and it collapsed on it's junkies, 

the soccer addicts with their 

fast legs running around fleet-floot 

and holding down the chance 

of being someone like harry kane 

or mbappe some day. 

maybe, that will happen.

i guess you just never know. 

the sun was going down, 

pouring light all over 

the goddamn place, 

lightning up the players desire, 

when willy said 

"dude, keep watching,

i'ma do one for a-you" 

"alrighty then, if you say so" 

and i let my cheeks slide down 

to watch the game and not 

read about allen and jack and 

neal and denver, colorado. 

a crowd of birds roared, 

howling in the sky, 

scared and making up a simphony

better than fidelio for the players, 

immersed on the game, 

not giving a single glance at the 

sky to meet the groaning birds.