red pills found behind the sofa cushions, green pills edition
My hoodie and me. My hoodie and me. My hoodie and me. And the smell of Mountain Dew.
A stale citrus stink, too—like when some lemonhead john cruises the junkie lime hooker who hangs out behind the diner on Alameda and Bryant and the two trade on their separate loneliness in quick oily spurts behind a dumpster stuffed with soggy wooden produce crates.
You know the smell. Like a puddle of resignation.
—Speaking of which, did I ever tell you about the time my hoodie killed a junkie lime hooker? Me, I just stood there and watched, puffing on a Menthol cigarette and willing myself into a liquid state. A speck of rain on a windshield, disinterested, refracting a benign and glistening slaughter in twitchy oblong curves bleeding all the colors of the rainbow…
Then I washed my hands, went home, and had a bowl of clam chowder. Because that’s the kind of bastard I can be.