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Father says the peak of music was the Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

I grow up with my ears cocooned by Scar Tissue & the Zephyr Song. 

But the Red Hot Chili Peppers aren’t so rad anymore. To pay the 

bills on mullets & vintage guitars, they run a food truck—a donut truck,

greased small thing. After the birds flock sunlit, the Red Hot Chili Pepper (Donuts)

settles on Riggs and East Johnson Street. Perfectly goldened O’s. American Rock 

humming in the background. People lined up, their faces sunlit into Boston Creams.

Plenty of Boston Creams, made on site. And, if you are adventurous—like I was

last Saturday—you’ll venture beyond the simple glazed or strawberry frosted. No,

you’ll choose the paramount: the Red Hot Chili Pepper (Donut) The experience.

Freshly fried dough. A thin spread of cherry glaze. A smattering of red chili flakes 

dusted across the deliciousness. A dancing tongue. Tears leaking from squinting eyes. 

A smear of pink staining your cheeks. Hoarse breaths crackling. Worship. Stumbling. 

Burnt joy. A bonfire’s lingering.