A Bottle of Wine Equals This.

I see these people and I think: the mere fact that you exist, it boggles my mind.

CRACK. The sound of a beer can, and I’m craving it and need it–Weed that is–I need it. It’s 1:30 AM. Sea fog is steaming through the alleys. It’s gotten to be that intense. I love it. I hop from the couch and kick out the door. I breath in the hot, thick air. I stand on the fire escape. It’s like a Campbells soup, which is not a good thing. I look down below. There’s a man and woman making out below. I watch them do it. The woman kicks her knee up to the man’s side. He catches it. They’re really going at it. The man bangs his fist against the dumpster. He howls. Literally. I unlock my bicycle. I make my way down the latter. They acknowledge my presence, but they just keep at it. I smile, because I can’t help it. I think to ask them, but I relinquish. I’m not gonna interrupt that, I think myself. I get to pedaling, making way into the night.

Troggling over the brick road. Each brick is inscribed with the word: Agusta Block. They come from Augusta Georgia. I’m nowhere near Georgia. But every brick in this town comes from Georgia. Augusta Georgia.

I get past the deli, where I see Bob. Bob doesn’t know who I am. In fact, I don’t know who Bob is either, but he’s there, though. He works at the deli. And though it’s closed, there Bob is, closing shop. I’ll ask Bob, I think to myself. Bob probably is good, I assume. “Hey, man, you got any weed,” I ask him, confidently, as if that he should. Bob has dreadlocks. Bob looks like he should. Bob got offended by this. “No, man, I don’t do that shit,” he says, “I know I look like I do, but I don’t, I’m straight edge,” he adds. I nod, as if this was expected. The contradiction that is my life. “Just asking, Bob, no biggie,” I said, and kept peddling. Bob is just fronting, I say to myself. He probably thinks I’m a cop, I think.

I look up at the buildings. The tops of which are veiled with sea fog. It’s like batman, I think to myself.



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