f*****g pinstripes

 Mama Cass came down the stairs this morning. I was sitting at the table drinking a coffee. As she caught sight of the morning dew, she tore open the sky with a voice that boomed through the damp, dank morning. Inbetween puffs of her cigarette she flipped on the tv. The Red Sox are playing the Yankees in one of those old fashioned gun fights, the score board reading 9-8 in favor of those well hung Boston patriots. She starts to b***h about how the pinstripes, the damn pinstripes always win games for those f*****g yankees. She sits across from me, her ebony skin enveloping the sun that is just reaching the lowest corners of the room. She stares out the window at a pastor whom is belting fire and brimstone from the balcony of a neighbors home, where the night before a man succumbed to the infinite glories of his favourite needle. Mama Cass shakes her head and puts out her cigarette, asking me why people need idolize someone they've never met. I'm stuck and tell her Mama, I don't f*****g know. And that the god damn truth I tell myself, I don't know nothing 'nething. I may be fucked when it comes to all those saints, and all those angels, but f**k me if I'm going to spend at least one lifetime involved with a church and no woman in my sights. Women man, that's always where it's at. They may treat you s****y, and they may treat you fine, but a woman whom loves you man there's no wrong in sight. And man if you become disallusioned somewhere along the line, brother don't worry there's always time on your side.

Reviews

[Emily_.]

There's some really great imagery in this 'ebony skin enveloping the sun...' and for me at least your writting creates a not necessairly conventionally attractive environment but one that none the less I feel drawn to. You show a very clear view on life brilliantly and without shame and I feel that this desrves a great amount of respect.

[Don Coorough]

Nice ride here. I love the injection of Mama Cass into the mainline of the poem. And the juxtaposition of the preacher shooting up was wild man, wild! Keep on trippin' (well, they used to say truckin' but, hell, I prefer it this way!). - EllisD