he spat out
the kind of
meth fueled
truck stop
pimp
garbage
a stripper
would have tattooed
in misspelled cursive
across stretch marks
beneath
sagging breasts.

a sort
of stoned
laureate lothario
to the
winos and hipster types
that never
leave home
without
a flask.

he never had
any sort of
fortune
to speak of
but in
speaking
he could have made
his fortunes.

he was more
suited
to playing footsie
with prostitutes
on the
thread bare couch
while
the haze of
indica
steamrolled
the vinegar taint
of the cheap wine
the astringent
nature
of the dollar
vodka.

if his words seem
familiar
you may want to
get tested
for
the clap.

his world is

dirtier

than you might
wish
to root around in
like a pig
in hopes of
a truffle.

his
pearls of wisdom
little more than
magic marker
etchings
in the toilet stalls
of this great
nation.

americana in c-minor.
an autobiography.