Sunday, May 18, 2014

Count the Green

Ever see a Gulf gas pump
with scrolling dials in the 
living room of an apartment?

Place smells like weed
weed weed & PBS
running un-watched
un-listened to,

white walls chipped and mildewed 
and old famous old DC punk
stories, get this one:

Guy comes home late from a party/bar/party drunk off his ass, banging on his apartment door, can't find his keys see, but this door, as it happens, isn't his door & old lady inside isn't his old lady, so she calls the cops,terrified (someone is shouting, cursing, trying to bust her door down & they show up, find him passed out on the floor, check his wallet, see he lives in same building but floor above, so they help him up and take him from say 4A to 5, rifle through his pockets for find his keys & open the door, find inside on coffee table:

Weed - 2 lbs
Money (in American $) - 15,000

Tomorrow he wakes up in stupor on couch, money gone, weed gone, and only hangover, robbery infamy.

There's a robot jellyfish painting on 
the wall above his couch now,
it's no longer 1994--

Those years are gone,
he's chilling now with 
healthcare, &
fucking hell, help a bum out,
why don't'cha?

I'm not at liberty to say--

He lives in an old beat highrise,
coffin elevators, maroon brick walls
everywhere, follow me?

We sit facing each other,
Jon and I--

He counts the money,
makes sure,
counts again,

deals out the green.

No comments:

Post a Comment