Friday, February 5, 2010

february 5th, 2010

here's an older poem from Matzo Ball Soup...

the junkie

The junkie is on his junk and his spotted beagle looks curiously into the soul of a nearby Hot Pocket. All I want is my change, but his hands are shaking and I am fairly sure the beagle does not know how to count. So I stand patiently, chewing on the fact that our country now has its first black president-elect. It's a wonderful thing-- and there were people marching in the street yelling What do we want?! Change! When do we want it?! Now! I had to separate myself near Santa Monica and San Vicente to get a beer, my legs were tired and I was thirsty-- but where do we go from here? Your song still needs a chorus and I am still waiting for my change, the junkie is trembling and I am losing my patience. Stories of gangrene swirl through my mind. How long will this take? I begin to panic, rubbing my hands together until tiny beads of skin litter the polka-dot floor. Uhhhhh… ummmmm… two twenty… two twenty-seven?... ummmmm… two… twenty-EIGHT… two twenty-eight?... uhhhhh…. This could last days, I already feel my feet outgrowing my shoes. The walls begin to crawl towards me like a squirrel scaling a fence. I have to keep my cool, I must maintain! Two nineteen sir, here you are. Sorry for the… he trails off. I snatch the money from his crusty hand and bolt to my white convertible. Giddy up my stallion, ya! Yaaaa!

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