How Do They Make It?
How do they make it, these vastly inferior sorts, strolling
the walkways in their chartreuse monochromatic cotton/polyester blend sweatsuits and matching knock-off Crocs?
Issuing catcalls from their lime green crotch rockets, their sky blue, rusted-out pickup trucks with neon
track lights? These hirsute ape-men, not a tooth in their skulls, smelling as if they are fresh from the
dumpster or drowned in English Leather, trying to pool their money for a lap dance or two? That fellow on the
train with the prison tattoos, duck's ass permed in the back, ejaculating his face full of mucous onto the
empty seat next to him? Those ladies in their beige Bermudas, sporting Depends, repositioning the figurines
in their life-sized nativity scenes, hunting for the perfect windsock or roach spray at the Discount Mega
Mall- hanging at Cash America Jewelry & Loan because they believe in a concept of success through osmosis?
The man in the mauve muscle shirt constantly masturbating in your back alley- the guys shooting albatross,
combing through piles of refuse under a neighboring bridge- or the fellows harvesting scrap metal, hanging
a little brain- donning ass-crack exposing hip-huggers, teal headbands dangling over their eyes- smoking a
grit amidst a powwow in the parking lot, wearing their Run DMC t-shirts (you ain't tougher than leather) and
their urine-stained gauchos? How do they make it, I ask myself, as I attempt to straighten my magenta doo-rag,
as I retrieve my incessantly baggy jeans from the floor. As I scrape yet another incrusted scab from my pock
marked visage. The answer is one I will probably never know.