Bob the pimp was calling my hotel room again.
She rolled over, lit a Newport and said
“Stay gold Pony Boy.”
I couldn’t help but concentrate on the red spiders
playing London bridge on the hairs of her pussy,
her open legs resembled the Arc De Triumph-
at least she was gracious enough to honor the fallen, I thought.
The phone kept ringing- I knew it was Bob.
I tried putting my pants on
but the left leg looked like the right.
She studied her face in a Boone’s Farm bottle.
I got my pants on, hid behind the curtains
and looked out the window; seventh floor, Riviera.
The sky was dry heaving
the smog was deafening
civilization was driving toy cars into the cunt of prosperity.
The phone rang. I picked it up. It was Bob.
I made sure I had my dignity and room key ,
opened the door to leave and
she said, “Stay gold Pony Boy,”
and I said, “You already said that,” and walked out.
The slot machines were ringing in the lobby,
I watched myself walk in the mirrors on the ceiling-
the last days of civilization played out
over my head like a lifetime achievement award montage.
I met Bob across the street in the Circus Circus bathroom,
the one closest to the NASCAR thrill ride.
He laid out a line on the silver handicap rail.
It burnt going down.
His diamond studded sunglasses
hid all emotion but hustle,
he handed me a quarter bag.
“Here take this back to the farm with you homeboy. Bob’s treat.”
I grabbed it from him. My jaw so tight
it pressed out commemorative coins.
“Thanks Bob. It’s been nice knowin ya.”
“You be careful young blood. You is special. I can sees it.”
His gold tooth made me feel human again.
He disappeared into the gold void.
Up for five days-
I took a bus to Fremont St.
Jason Hardung’s work has been published widely through the American underground. His work has appeared in The New York Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Word Riot, Zygote In My Coffee, Underground Voices, decomP, Thrasher, Lummox Journal, Heroin Love Songs, Polarity, Up The Staircase, St. Vitus Press to name a few. He has a chapbook, Breaking The Hearts of Robots on Covert Press, and a full length book, The Broken and The Damned on Epic Rites. He has been nominated for a Puschcart. He is co-editor of the Front Range Review and Matter Journal and lives in FT. Collins, Colorado with a cat and a bird whose feet fell off.
