but after all

he spoke english.

he had blue eyes,

and a braided beard

establishing his street cred,

150K per annum, and

twenty feet of vintage vinyl.

cold pressed virgin oil

from a $50 lunch lingered

on his fingers as he

cold pressed ten million lives

between two forty five

and three o'clock on friday.

he discussed this weeks

wars and clicks while sipping

a cappuccino fetched by

his pink-haired office chick,

speculated on her talents

with her tongue stud.

maybe he could wrestle a demo

in the back seat of his tesla.

he'd promised that he'd test her

claim that she could code

like a psychedelic demon

data mining the motherfucking lode.