Writing & Writers

You Aren’t Here

It’s like I’m in a 90’s film where everyone is doing way too many drugs and I’m not invited to the party. Two gay men, actors I think, drive by me in their Miata. G’nite guys. G’nite.

I fall in line and fall asleep next to Crazy Shanks who lives under the overpass with his dog. He loves that little fucker. Unlike most of the street urchins, Shanks spends his hard earned cash on that mutt. Dog food and flea and tick powder. The dog comes first. I wonder if Shanks ever gets hungry enough to consider it. Not actually do it. But consider it, you know? Fuck off.

Boroughs is getting colder as the nights come. Piece of shit man, take your hands off me. A woman screams. Gun fire. Silence. Peaceful. Sirens. Helicopters hover over homes. Where’s that pack of cigarettes.

Maricon puto, give me my five dollars. Another gun shot and more silence. Fuck them, Shanks. Let’s get out from under here. Ever think that maybe the cars will come crashing down and smother us alive? I do. Every time. Kitty kitty kitty cat. My familiars, I look forward to being in your company again.

Sometimes I want to believe in an afterlife. Sometimes I want to believe there’s more to life than this. Hey, Shanks? What do you think? Hungry after all? See the sky just before it goes dark. Before our vision just fades. Is that death? Do we feel it? Fuck you.

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