When the wrong guy is elected mayor

From: ***********492@earthlink.net Reply-To: **********492@earthlink.net To: "Patrick" <thewaffleboy@hotmail.com> Subject: Tom Waits' Shoe Date: Wed, 6 Jun 2001 12:36:18 -0700 Tom Waits' Shoe It's sunny outside, it's always sunny outside, maybe I'll go out tomorrow. My cigarette cough is so bad I'm drinking generic cough syrup straight from the bottle. I realize, that nothing I can say or do is as disgustingly marrow as previous writers in the history of the world. The dirty fan is spinning last year's dust back into my lungs. Moving stale air to and fro like some back alley whore swinging in a night time glass shard playground. Dreaming of little kiddie days when spreading her legs meant doing splits for gym class. The fat lady is singing. It's noon. I can still taste the cough syrup in my mouth, red flavored dye #5. It makes me dopey, but I can breathe better, maybe I'll go sit in the sun and read the paper, get pissed off about politics in section A, get raving about athletes in section C, opinion democrats screaming about energy rip offs, editorial republicans saying it ain't fair to attack Bush's twin drunk family values be damned kids, like I care, but when the Christians are based on purity they have to take the rock hit stoney throws when they break their own commandments. An eye for an eye never seems fair when the blind man starts poking pointy sticks at your one good eye. Where are the fucking comics, it's all I can stand. I haven't scored any good drugs in a while, where's my unemployment check? The bills are piling up. I need more coffee, my balloon head wobbling in thick syrup soup. Ooops, dropped the baby again. What can I do to remedy this? What malady is my remedy? Cuteness was never my strong point. I realize that this type of life is a razor's edge that will only end up leaving you scarred. The young Mexican kid is outside trying to start his piece of shit, whine, whine, bomb, Toyota junker held together by curses and spit. Every day it takes 20 minutes to warm it up, to get going, to go somewhere only to return and forget that the car is gonna die maybe tomorrow, tomorrow or tomorrow. Mexican Toyota blues, cough in my lung window, blooming gray from the dry ficus tree pissed on by ghetto dogs. If I'm really lucky the Pep Boys self installed car alarm will beep and honk for the next hour. No, the car pulls smoky away in my door, through my fan into my body. He's gone. Now where can I aim my anger? sam