Monday, August 29, 2016

the literature of the poor

Darting over toward the mensroom, I quickly passed through the door. Immediately, my senses were assaulted from the myriad aromas of putrefied shit, urine, dirty clothes, and cigarette smoke. Hip blacks stood in front of the clogged sinks, teasing and combing hair, chatting garrulously with acquaintances. They abruptly halted their conversation momentarily as I entered and nonchalantly resumed their dialog after glancing me over in dubious suspicion. Several hobos lay catatonic on the dirty, tiled floor against the far wall. Long streams of urine and spilled liquor from concealed bottles trickled from soiled, dingy pants to a clogged grate in the middle of the room. Two elderly, white men in plaid fedoras stood against the wall and smoked rolled cigarettes. The tell-tale whiff of marijuana mingled in with the tobacco.
I entered an unoccupied stall. The stall had no door. A large yellow turd floated in the urine choked water of the toilet. I took a piss. The walls were covered in graffiti. Ronda fucks like a pimp. I like to suck cholo’s verga 567-8457 call anytime. Nigga’s got the biggest dicks. Fuck the police. If your reading this, your doomed.
The literature of the poor.

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