the grifter

the felt hat the worn trench coat
the smell of old whiskey lingering like a lovers perfume
a pack of cards that never leaves his hands
and a smile that would warm your dead grandmother
just one more game I am sure you'll beat him this time

a grifter at heart and a drifter by necessity
seen every small town
and knows every shabby dive with a decent bourbon

A tired stride in his step though
needs that one big score
cant keep living off these nickels and dimes

story ideas for later

I had a dream last night and I remember thinking wow that would make a cool story you should write it down and I did in me dream. So fuck here I am trying to remember it now and get it down.

It had to do with a murder in a sort of Salvador Dali world of weird people and exaggerated backgrounds and characters. Of course the main Character was a PI called in by the sister of the murder victim to take a look at the case because the cops have shelved it as just another unsolved murder. Anyway details hazy lots I don't remember but the middle is the stuff that gets filled in later anyway it was the ending that stuck with me. It turns out he was murdered in a different dimension but that every variation of him was killed when he died. Fuck I dont even know how that works so many plot holes. Gahh something in there just strikes a chord though and if I don't jot it down it will be gone for good. Something to mull over I guess.

where is that fucking van

well there are 5 of us here and it is all going to shit
dammit man where is that fucking van
the heist is going to shit
that one guy you said was cool
well damn if he isn't an informer
where is that fucking van
we are going to go and live on islands
have our own pet monkeys
they will get our drinks and throw their own shit at our enemies
something evil that will fight in armor
I can't believe that fucking van isn't here yet
it is like that scene from heat
running down the road firing at everyone in site
this can't end well
there won't be any monkeys for us
going to go out like Bonnie and Clyde
gurgling to death on my own blood
still pulled a heist and you didn't

one more pill one more drink can you believe that this drive way isn't mine

still in bed I think it might be three pm
can't get up won't get up
an evening of writing
an evening of reading
can you tell

watching poor country boys kill and die
while even poorer foreigners watch their country crumble
and no one cares
thats right talk a lot of platitudes
but no one really gives a fuck
let them fight let them die
just don't fucking get in the way of my christmas shopping

still writing still reading
I know you don't you care
I am having a hard time caring myself

written to many words nothing is safe keep your snow cones under lock and key

emptying the blood from your head
just another xmas tradition
used to be a superman
now you are nothing more then a super bleeder
I will never hold you again
and thats a good thing
I am just a liar
have you seen my snow cone
you always hated bad news
lead you to believe that it was my snow cone
now it is gone and so are you
hope you got abducted by an alien
did they give you a snow cone
do you still tell that story about the aliens
your country kicked in my door
throwing weapons at my house
I know you are rambunctious
left your troops for a sleep over
they took all my ice cream
but no one but me noticed
everyone else was watching TV
and now you are alone
I hope you are happy
and I want my snow cone back