Journal 5, Entry 4- Original Prompt: "Bad Poem Numberr 3"

While sleeping in a hostel in Florence with a 105 degree fever, I became a motorcycle. 

The German couple above me whispered even though no one spoke their language. 

The Japanese boy about my age with the darkened eyes, the bubble vest, and the slit-like lips stared at his computer for the night and cried in the morning.

The man on my left stripped down to his cock and balls and lathered himself in a oil of camomile and humility.