Cash Business
Don’t send it
the waxing poetic
is a stick fuck
if I imagined in colors it would be
black and blackblue
if it had feelers, velvet
and punk renditions of showtunes
it’s true that I paint it up to avoid reality
and it’s ugly like that
I suppose that’s the point
in the end
everyone pays for truth
Trick
We were loaded...
skimmin’ down Morton Ave.
at 4 am,
searching for the end of the fog
where the neon light calls
Takhomasak
you had a counter seat,
cup o’ Joe,
the crumbled-up bag at your feet.
laughin’ through your story
drop of coffee in your `stache.
“... so he pulls up and says
he’s got a bag of canned food for a date.
Ain’t that shit funny?
Check it out! I ain’t kiddin’.”
Juicy brown spit flying on pocket amusement.
(Flo caught it on her uniform sleeve, mortified)
A split-second, maybe a full-tick–
a moment between those two
like the liquid in the torpedo shaped plug in lights
blob o blob, floating, suspended.
Realization squirming up uncomfortable mechanisms
of fate blown anguish.
Curtains up. Omega!
I wasn’t sure who to feel sorry for.
disclosure
doesn't it just suck shit that I am not cool. I am not the idea of your black death suck. there is no breathing demon blood in vain. and, well we don't sell happiness here either. got out of that business long ago, but I do believe in magic and since I can find peace in that joy; silly will do. I think I'll be alright.
