I’m at work Buzzing to get out of there Out of the fluorescence And the din of screaming children As it downplays the howling heads Of their mothers who Dream of their children’s exposed Necks and getting out of the grocery store Before it starts to rain.
I am Bobcat Goldthwait underneath The large hanging lamps, pale green as barge lights I make little sounds with my lips And tongue, little incoherent sounds To push the time forward .
A man comes through My line holding a beige patch Of cloth Over his exposed trachea beneath,
with a voice like he crushes cement puts it in his coffee and ***** it up through a fiberglass straw., He drops some Toothpaste and a brush on the counter And says to me with that mutilated Voice: “there are only two types of *****, Big old *****, And old big *****.”
His skin is blotchy in the cheeks like the husks of craters seen from the sky, and the corners of his mouth are dry and cracked snaking and splitting outward like dry riverbeds.
For a second I want to laugh so hard, That people will think I’m crazy, and Maybe one of the twitchy managers will have Me committed.
If he says any more, it’s this: “You’re young, enjoy it, if you worry About the fuckups now, you’ll Be worrying until you’re an old ****** and that doesn’t do you any good, ***** hates the old **** ups.”