An Extremely Mystical Place of Bums and Criminals
I went to the laundromat
in the ghetto
because
i wanted to feel
the grit of
reality.
I did my laundry
and played
Bust-a-Move
on the old neo-geo
when
in
walked
a Mexican
gangmember,
a real pathetic rat type
around my height,
real skinny
with big ears
small face
and big nose
wearing a xxxl white t-shirt
and size 44 black pants
on his 28 waist.
He walked in and hit me up right away.
The first thing i noticed were
the little homemade prison tattoos on his face,
a tear drop
and some initials.
“Eh you got fifty cents, I need to dry my jacket,” he demanded.
I got pissed,
“Nah man, i don’t got nothing.”
I sounded confrontational,
unafraid,
his animal instinct
made him decide
not to push it
and he moved on,
knowing if he tripped on me
over fifty cents
he’d have to pull a weapon
or let it go.
He got his fifty cents from an old Nicaraguan lady
and i ignored him and read 86′d;
he went about his jacket drying business
and i finished the book by Dan Fante
my Aunt Heidi gave me for Christmas.
I went to the laundromat
next to the projects
out of boredom
and for
the millions of people
who’d never know what it was like
to wash clothes among
gangmembers
and
homeless people
walking in out of rain
to dry wet stinking clothes;
shoelaceless
dirty sneakers
tongues hanging out
as he walked by me, my head down in the book,
i noticed his dirty shoes, then looked up at him
and his dirty blonde beard and wild hair
and dark leather skin
lifeless eyes staring straight forward
seeing the world differently than me,
seeing through it,
and i thought,
that must be an art
to walk in shoes with no laces.
And then he mumbled something as he left,
and i wondered if he
talked directly to God
as schizophrenics
do,
or was it
a demon
he responded to?
