It's a bowl and it's going to fill up

Haven't been back here since the days of Katrina – that wretched bitch. I remember the rude awakening after a coke-bender with Frankie. Waking up with black licorice vodka puke in your hair is not funny, nor is it cute. The air outside his air-conditioned sanctuary felt as if someone had shoved a blow dryer into my mouth. There were unknown chunks of recycled food stuff stuck in my teeth and to the roof of my mouth. On the radio the mayor kept on saying over and over: This city is a bowl and it's going to fill up.
We hitched a ride with some drunken lunatics, on the back of a baby-blue pick-up truck. We didn't know where to go, but couldn't go west so we drove north. And ended up, twelve hours later, at some crowded motel in Mississippi. Crying kids and trailer trash hussies with dollar bills underneath their well-worn bra straps.
I remember it feeling weird that people weren't staring at me.
The storm came our way in the morning. By then the sheer force had been matted by all the oak trees and people it had run into. The winds were still strong and unpredictable, throwing sheets of rusty metal and young trees into the street as we were headed for Dallas.
I hurt from letting Frankie fuck me that night. That sex felt more like exercise than anything else.
Back in 2005 what the fuck did I know?
And now, the air is still sticky. And I keep getting fucked up.
But last night I was so overcome by sadness. Too bad. It was a really cool bar in a sketchy neighborhood. There was talk of drive-by shootings.
Met up with R and O. They are still here.