WHAT CAN YOU DO?
Shoving that "hard" into the palms
of the ones with a real sickness
I heard he used to wait outside
dope clinics to catch a man in desperation
After my friend got off of work,
every night this man was waiting there
Blowing up his Nextel, bloop bloop or chirp chirp,
however you wanna call it
"I'm right around the way man, I got some killer too"
"Oh you got no money? I gotchu, your my boy"
"This is the best shit you ever seen, for cheap bro, lemme just run through"
"C'mon man, I gotta get you high for a minute, then I'm out"
"Your trying to quit? ha, thats some funny shit, hit this man"
"Kids are home? just come outside right quick"
your on parol, who gives a fuck
your losing your house, who gives a fuck
your selling your mom's prescriptions, who gives a fuck
your gonna lose your kids, who gives a fuck
"Lemme get you high and fuck the bullshit"
That's what my friend deals with,
I can try to help all I want
but I'll either get sucked in or pulled down too
There was this psych doc that believed the
only way to really help a person is to get on
their level and infiltrate their mind as a friend.
He got robbed and killed.
So what can you do?
C@ptain W@lnut$
ANGER MANAGEMENT.
Retroblueeyedhunk6969@yourservice
won my E-Bay auction of
26 hair strands from Bela Lugosi,
saved by his barber, Bob, back
in 1953.
Plus, I had the certificate of
authenticity.
The normal, simple honeymoon of
Buyer & Seller was over
immediately once Retro
started sending demands, like
a Mapquested, Easter Egg hunt,
ransom directions:
“Can you do any better on
the shipping costs? I think $6.00
is excessive. Can you insure it
through an outside source, like
Progressive, instead of
The Post Office?”
I was compliant.
After all, our brief encounter
was nearly over.
Then Retro sent two more
e-mails, each gathering
manic, locomotive steam:
“When you pack them, can you
use organic brown rice packing
peanuts along w/ recycled,
shredded newspaper—
newspaper that uses soy ink—
& an American-made box,
no foreign boxes?”
I still tried; I wanted
our temporary fling
to work.
Next Retro barraged me
w/ three more e-mails—like
Jupiter’s moons losing orbit—
questioning the details of
the auction, if I mailed it &
when would it arrive:
“I tried the tracking number to
no avail. Are you sure you
mailed it? Are any of Bela’s
hairs gray? How much gray is
on each strand? I recall you
mentioning you wished they had
gone for more money. You better
not have ripped me off!”
And so it went—
an Old West, covered wagon
dust storm of e-mails each day.
Each e-mail more frantic & crazed—
like Charlie Manson’s online
diary or blog.
Part 2.
So I bought a round-trip,
plane ticket to Altoona, Florida, where
Retro lived.
The ticket was $497.03.
The auction sold for $18.52,
shipping included.
I was in the red,
but it didn’t matter.
I found Retro’s tiny box apartment
pretty easily.
Outside his door was a
Welcome mat w/ decorative
roses & tulips.
I rang the door-bell a
couple times.
In the distance behind
the door, I could hear
some assorted stumblings,
something delicate break, &
a body fall.
10 minutes or so later,
this emaciated kid, maybe
18, 19, came to the door.
He must’ve had some awful
disease that kept him short & skinny
& messed-up his immune system, cause
he was a wizened guy on crutches
w/ busted legs & an arm, like a
walking stick w/ bent
pretzel rods for
prosthetic legs—
a sickly ghost silhouette
of the human form—
a 75-yr old echo lost
in The Grand Canyon.
I asked the kid if
he was Retro.
He said yes through a
voice-box, so it sounded
like the Star Trek computer.
Before I broke his nose,
I noticed ol blue-eyed Retro
had shit-brown eyes hidden,
like a frog under mulch, behind
telescope-thick lenses.
Jason Williams
WHAT'S UP DOC, YOU SPOOKED?
Yr burning house is haunted word
like a leaning taint of taunt--
a lucky find fought bottom
rung cat in hat trick
like a wily rabbit
(came quick)
Was it clean?
A lucky sevens yr
shuffling house of cards
like a man's fat hands
on th white gloved moon--
& that's a stack of facts
like a swift bag of shit
burns bricks thru a glass ruse--
I ain't no trappin rat
in a glib flap of lip
tricked out hat
yanked behind
a curtain called loose
like a
soured grape
sandwich clit
I think you get the juggling gist of this fist of compound tower of scoured jive-- and that's a clue for you, a roadmap, and a tool
O pretentious mentor & wandering jew
Lady K