Ass, Gas, or Grass: No One Rides for Free
You make me feel like I’ve never touched anyone, empty shed without music. Additional ingredients for comparison: I love migrating feet because it’s real, to add sugar to a wound, the apple trees are blossoming. Biographies thicken with natal down, ordinary freedoms read and reshelved. Instructed distractedly on most occasions, what’s a mammal to do except apply for state dehabituation benefits. The state, however, frowns on people taking their brains into their own hands unless they get a cut out of industrial meatspace readied for recession. In the ruins of truck stops, bleached skulls whistle where hells bells and prairie smoke dare to tread. I’d rather not stop, but what other choice do I have?
Only Black Girl Behind the Bar
I would’ve been a better bartender if they would’ve left me alone trust that bartending is also a social art when you work for tips you gotta be a friend make a few friends people often come to the same bar everyday their lives discharging right in front of you miserable after work on their way to work I showed a man poems he said “universal love” I got fired for not selling enough drinks for that one another time I sold drinks that weren’t drinks, sugar water so the dancers wouldn't get too tanked there were regulars there too, old men who had a few tipped their favorites and went home at a decent hour, they barely talked their money spoke for them or they had been alive too long that talking was useless especially in a place serving gorgeous women in thongs flirting for their livelihoods then another time I worked in a blues bar and the owner was a top notch alcoholic and eventually took the city’s money and now it’s a parking lot nobody uses but as Etta James says you gotta serve somebody no matter where you are no matter who you become everyone in that bar knew she only sang the truth so this next round is on me and I’ll get myself one too the only Black girl behind the bar knows how to take damn good care of you
