mikevarley.com

Want Long Island?

Hang out in a pizzeria awhile, you’ll see.

The how ya doin’ pizza men with finely edged attitude. Fumble with your bill fold come register time if you want a taste of the age old disdain.

The fast developed high school girl that works at the shop, the only one not in pizza regalia. She wears her own uniform: tight jeans, straps of bra and spaghetti, hoops and goop and fledgling smokers husk. If there’s innocence there – there’s innocence everywhere – it’s stored in her brother’s hoodie pocket, hung up back, unwrapped and flavored with the fruits or her labor: a soul singing car ride on payday.

Delivery boys huff vapor in from the night, Toyota Corolla parked just out of sight. Some words with the big man, the smallest and slickest. Gotta keep him in line, the boy’s a born fuck up. Axe and Binaca and weed are his trademarks. Ambitionless motorist haunting the skate parks.

Hurry the fuck up, I want a fucking cigarette.

Baseball team sponsorships,
Pope John Paul motherships,
Soccer mom’s longing lips,
Lite FM’s standard hits,
Attitude, petty fits,
SUNY schools broken ships

Brick and mortar walls belie a certain something lookers spy:

A hope, a truth, a will,
a tear beneath rubber footing,
a smile at a flash of life’s soft spot,
a stiff limbed grace,
a gruff refrain,
a steady future,
a life lived for picnics,
a wife and a pick 6,
neon signs,
in the lines,
lapse and then taps on the drumsticks.

[audio:http://www.mikevarley.com/old/words/MikeVarley.com Skenes from a Vaudevillian Jester Haunt.mp3]