I charged the handrail,
But the frames of my skates,
Made brittle by winter cold,
Cracked in half,
Flinging me off the rail
And onto teeth, with a crunch,
That was muffled by the gushing pulp of my mouth.

"Fuck!" I screamed through a fistful of bloody chicklets,
And the quivering red silk of spit, blood and mucous
That sailed in strings from the spaces between my fingers.
"Are you okay?"
My friends looked down.
"No, not really."
"Get up and try it again you pussy," they comforted.

---

Errell Owens is a loyal San Franciscan looking to flee to the East Coast.