Walking along
the street
today
and some guy
shouts "Hey
USA!"
so I asked him
what "USA"
stands for
and his reply
was "U
Sexy Angel"
that was
sweet
of him.
the street
today
and some guy
shouts "Hey
USA!"
so I asked him
what "USA"
stands for
and his reply
was "U
Sexy Angel"
that was
sweet
of him.
(Hayley Rasoul via Facebook)
6 comments:
South-side Chicago White Guy Update (c. 2009)
stepping out on the sidewalk
after two rain-soaked days indoors.
smoking, staring at how the late afternoon sun
breaks over the canopy of the park
across the way.
the yammering of monk parakeets emerging
from their thatched nests. the air thick
and hanging heavily with the aroma
of drenched earth.
dark-skinned sister strolling along.
kerchief-crowned, broadly smiling,
humming happily to her self, passes
behind me, continues on ten feet
past before yelling back
over her shoulder,
"hey, gorgeous!"
thrown, curious, i cast a glance in the other
direction, down the empty street
to see who she might be talking to,
knowing it couldn't have been me.
this makes her laugh. "well, you
sure as hell ain't ugly," she hollers,
w/o breaking stride. "because i don't
waste my time talking to
uhhhhglee people."
isht killed me.
Awesome. Is this a Greyhoos creation?
Yeah. I used to write stupid stuff while riding the bus, just for the sake of doing so.
I had another one about an odd dude who often rode my morning route. It was called "Ghost Dog." But I think I lost it long ago.
Try to remember it!
I believe it gone something like this...
ghost dog
dude gets on every morning,
boarding two stops just past
my own. always sitting in the back,
facing forward, each of us in
our usual spots. him always silent.
dark-complected, square-headed,
bespeckled, with the close-cropped
crescent of a beard stretched across
his broad, muppetish jaw.
and always, without variation, the same
flat black sweats & logoless hoodie. and
always with a sports bag filled with
kung-fu magazines of inestimable vintage.
all of them battered about the edges,
creased and worn from incessant paging,
thumbing, scrutiny,and prolonged en route
erudition.the pages glared at intensely.
at first i dub him 'hong-kong phooey',
but quickly settle on the more honorific
ghost dog.
never speaking a word, 'cept one day
when a robed & skullied brother steps
aboard & greets him. an exchange of
salutory asalaams, a furtive
coded handshake, a muttered conversation
that lasts several stops.
morning after morning. the shared
schedule with different destinations.
his being in deep downtown, off the bus
and into a bank -- the one with the big
gumdrop-shop agam presiding over the lobby -- where i imagine he must work as a security
guard, daily trading in his one uniform for
another each day, solemnly, broodingly,
vigilantly keeping watch. and i can't help
but pity in advance the aspiring thief who
tries to heist the place, unforeseeing
that it will only end with a crushed trachea
and bones snapping like dry linguine
once dude goes all ninja on his
ill-conceiving ass.
but one day he boards the bus with a box --
a gift, judging by the bow and the wrapping.
maybe a birthday gift, maybe from his sister.
he sits and opens it, extracting from the thing
a purple dress shirt, which gives him pause, glaring
at the thing in utter incomprehension.
then letting it fall from his grasp
with a sleeve dangling out the flap of
the box like a strangulated tongue.
he shakes his head, befuddled; stares
indignantly out the window
watching the trees
tumble past.
purple?
purple!
doesn't she know
that ghost dog
doesn't roll
like that?
I like it very much. William Carlos Williams of the long line.
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