They sell **** to poor people.
But its OK.
They are poor too.
I love that fiction book section.
I feel like I'm getting one over on them.
Hemingway,$1. Saroyan, $1,The Bronte girls,$1,D.H., $1, Sartre,$3, Camus...25¢...
I walk to the counter
"Your total is...$10."
They feel like they're getting one over on me.
Anyways...
(****...I've been drinking. It makes everything seem
poetic.)
I'm standing in the fiction section.
It's next to the women's bathroom
And it reeks like demon's ****.
I stand staring
Lobotomized.
So many titles
So much ****.
But... you never know...
(****... I was just thinking about the time I made a *** tape at 15...)
I found some more
Hem, Voltaire, Joyce .
I was having an
Ok
Day.
Then I smelled it.
Lavender on fire
In a torched
Green-black forest.
I looked over.
A beautiful blonde
Knelt down
Searching the very bottom row
Of the fiction section.
Christ...
May I combust
Now
And never see another
Sight.
She stood up
And stepped closer to me
Our shoulders touched.
"Sorry" she smiled
Green eyes.
I never notice eyes.
Green eyes.
"That's alright."
...*****...
She stood right next to me
Maybe, 10 minutes.
Say something
You lonely miserable *******...
All that reading you've done
She is browsing at fiction...
Say something, ******!...
Then her friends walked over
"Hey,(sunburntlavendardrippinginnapalm) you ready to go?"
"Hold up..." She exhaled
Say something
You drunkard lonely *******.
She stood up.
Looked at me.
Then left.
Green eyes.
I exhaled
Looked at the bottom shelf.
SHE, was there again...
Carson McCullers.
The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter
With her
"You'll never finish me, Ray." Smirk.
I smirked back.
Took her up to the counter...
$3.