Friday, February 22, 2008

I "heart" bricks

This is a love letter to the city of broad shoulders, broads, and pork shoulders. She's had plastic surgery, but the nose is still broken.

I like bricks, and, Jack, she's a brick house. She's a skirt steak, free fries with a shake. She's got the meat and the motion. So I'd like to know where you got the notion.

Cheap rents,
sleeping in tents
attention, gents,
that's my bottle.

Old-man bars,
rust-bucket cars,
pennies in jars
for your thoughts.

Hanging around,
nothing to do but frown,
rainy days and mundanes
always get me down.

Fly dump on a
dry hump day.
Don't sit there like a lump.
Don't be a chump.

Punch Drunk
went out to lunch
with a sucker punch,
he had a hunch
it was a supper club.

A 5 o'clock shadow falls over a stumblebum corner. Pull down the shades and call the coroner.

A shave and a shine,
come back to the five and dime,
you got more than a Dollar in Store,
Mr. Woolworth.

Hubcaps and cheap sox,
raindogs sleeping in a box,
"cheat you fair" --what do you care?
Shut the door and check the locks.

Dig -- she plays the squeeze box,
cold as an icebox,
their eyes lock
in a street shot.


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