Chill Pill
Awhile back there was a drive-by attempt by someone I hold dear against someone I hold less dear. It was a failed attempt which kept the potentially grieving family from fighting over who would get those gold teeth, because there ain't no way that boy will get buried with those teeth. They are at this point in time the only thing that defines his value. My rant goes like this: You HAVE to have some value to the world around you, otherwise...
Evil courts me. At English Turn this morning I swear to God I passed address number 66 just as my truck odometer read 666666. Shortly after that I was made to pause for the three prominent gentlemen who walked abreast blocking the incoming side of the narrow English Turn Blvd. Is this some sort of revolution of the affluent, a taking back of the streets from those ubiquitous and tiresome construction workers, none of whom by the way wish to be working inside this uptight gated community? Or are these salt-and-pepper-haired stooges my own little Father, Son, and Holy Ghost representation? I've never in my years working the Turn seen such blatant disregard for progress. Am I to make a choice now? Is this yet another crossroads?
For now I choose to not run them over, I creep behind them while I wait for some outgoing traffic to pass.
The vacant lots surrounding the jobsite are abundant with color from these miniature flowers which are everywhere sprouted from the stems of a succulent weed.
...what good are you, who needs you?
And I don't know about all that mystical shit really, I really don't, yet at the same time (exactly the same time), I believe wholeheartedly, and I mean I have no doubt that a piece of Mama D inhabits my vessel for the purpose of eternal retribution against those who helped her to that early grave.
"You motherfuckin' egg throwin' bitch," I introduce myself to he with the gold teeth. This is me after returning home early from English Turn on a Friday, as has been our recent habit and who am I to complain getting full pay? Before my tirade, which doesn't include much variety of wording other than the above, I had spent an hour cleaning dried broken eggs off the front of this house. Several direct hits on the wire mesh of the security door made for an especially gratifying chore after a half day at the Turn.
The dime had been dropped by a neighbor, not on Gold Teeth specifically but on--those boys that sit the porches (this one), and stoops (all the ones across the street). This egg throwing I am told is a game they've been playing since last night.
He just happened to be sitting there, on my clean porch, at the wrong time.
"Get the fuck off my porch, Get the fuck off my porch, you fuckin' bitch."
"Man, Ina get off this porch but you need to quit calling me that."
"Quit calling you what you worthless piece of shit. Get the fuck away, I'm calling the cops."
"Thas all right calla cop."
He's ready to go back, that motherfucker, it's no threat, his destiny awaits. He won't fight it.
Me either, I'm not fightin' any of it. There's other stories than these and I'm trying to retrieve them, but these are what it is for now. This is me and my life, and I cannot even conceive of another way I would have it (because I'm stupid). Although, I think it should be pretty obvious, I probably need to get laid sometime, anytime. Chill, Slim.
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Awhile back there was a drive-by attempt by someone I hold dear against someone I hold less dear. It was a failed attempt which kept the potentially grieving family from fighting over who would get those gold teeth, because there ain't no way that boy will get buried with those teeth. They are at this point in time the only thing that defines his value. My rant goes like this: You HAVE to have some value to the world around you, otherwise...
Evil courts me. At English Turn this morning I swear to God I passed address number 66 just as my truck odometer read 666666. Shortly after that I was made to pause for the three prominent gentlemen who walked abreast blocking the incoming side of the narrow English Turn Blvd. Is this some sort of revolution of the affluent, a taking back of the streets from those ubiquitous and tiresome construction workers, none of whom by the way wish to be working inside this uptight gated community? Or are these salt-and-pepper-haired stooges my own little Father, Son, and Holy Ghost representation? I've never in my years working the Turn seen such blatant disregard for progress. Am I to make a choice now? Is this yet another crossroads?
For now I choose to not run them over, I creep behind them while I wait for some outgoing traffic to pass.
The vacant lots surrounding the jobsite are abundant with color from these miniature flowers which are everywhere sprouted from the stems of a succulent weed.
...what good are you, who needs you?
And I don't know about all that mystical shit really, I really don't, yet at the same time (exactly the same time), I believe wholeheartedly, and I mean I have no doubt that a piece of Mama D inhabits my vessel for the purpose of eternal retribution against those who helped her to that early grave.
"You motherfuckin' egg throwin' bitch," I introduce myself to he with the gold teeth. This is me after returning home early from English Turn on a Friday, as has been our recent habit and who am I to complain getting full pay? Before my tirade, which doesn't include much variety of wording other than the above, I had spent an hour cleaning dried broken eggs off the front of this house. Several direct hits on the wire mesh of the security door made for an especially gratifying chore after a half day at the Turn.
The dime had been dropped by a neighbor, not on Gold Teeth specifically but on--those boys that sit the porches (this one), and stoops (all the ones across the street). This egg throwing I am told is a game they've been playing since last night.
He just happened to be sitting there, on my clean porch, at the wrong time.
"Get the fuck off my porch, Get the fuck off my porch, you fuckin' bitch."
"Man, Ina get off this porch but you need to quit calling me that."
"Quit calling you what you worthless piece of shit. Get the fuck away, I'm calling the cops."
"Thas all right calla cop."
He's ready to go back, that motherfucker, it's no threat, his destiny awaits. He won't fight it.
Me either, I'm not fightin' any of it. There's other stories than these and I'm trying to retrieve them, but these are what it is for now. This is me and my life, and I cannot even conceive of another way I would have it (because I'm stupid). Although, I think it should be pretty obvious, I probably need to get laid sometime, anytime. Chill, Slim.
- jimlouis 5-13-2000 2:20 am