- Non-Erotic Poetry
- He Didn't Flinch
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I called him someone else's name and he laughed and was like, no. Shit, your weed is good, man. I'm trippin. That'll be ninety for a quarter. I was like, what the fuck? You might be the closest thing to a copy of gettin' my old life back but I'm broke, nigga. Can I hit that again? He passes it back, says, you should be a fuckin' massage therapist. I say, with these skeleton hands? Got cocky and tried a move and almost plucked his eye out. He didn't flinch. Doesn't say much and also likes to point, aim, and shoot. It's just confusing when I thought I knew and now I'm looking for replicas. About as fair as his weed prices.
