I’m on my back in the middle of the street.

I can smell the shit on the asphalt.

My palm feels raw as a shredded radish;

The asphalt shit is ground into my blood, I think,

& it will give me a disease like Ebola by morning.

I hear the onlookers review my tumble:

“Ooooohhh!”

“Damn!!”

“That boy went DOWN!!!”

I can’t say I disagree & I pop up to my feet

& take a bow like I’m performing for the Queen,

When in reality my audience are the homeless,

The addled & the big blonde lesbian

Who checks ID’s outside the door of the pot shop.

Next time I won’t try to run across Mission with my bum foot.

Next time I’ll park on 9th like I normally do,

Then use the crosswalk in its legally prescribed manner.

But maybe by then the Feds will raid the shop,

Close it up & say no more pot for you losers,

Go get drunk instead, like real Americans.

Comments

Mindy Ross July 19, 2012 @ 9:38 p.m.

How did you get away with saying sh*t? And how can you not like beer? I love it! Even as a little girl, my dad would let me take a sip of his, and then I sneak and have some more after her fell asleep on the couch. Must be an acquired taste.

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Dadler July 19, 2012 @ 10:05 p.m.

I was wondering the same thing about that word.

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richzombie July 20, 2012 @ 11:31 a.m.

dadler - my wonder is - should i drink less and smoke more ?

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Dadler July 20, 2012 @ 2:20 p.m.

Meet them in the middle and vaporize. Peace, my man.

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