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Kevin Gordon
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Cajun with a K
This place is just concrete split with weeds, Child's handprint imbedded, dated 1973. They spell cajun with a K on the next door store sign, Selling crawfish, cigarettes and fishing line.
And decay takes its own saccharine time. That's the main drag dying down there under the overpass, Where nobody goes but those with nowhere to land: The drifting, the insane, an occasional College rock band in search of a gritty urban vibe for their promotional photograph, Then they haul their asses right back to campus
Or the truly courageous venture down to the Blue Diamond, sit at the bar, while the regulars slap their dominoes down on the gold-flecked formica. Then a certain type of nervous fella leans in to your ear, with one eye on your girl; she's the finest thing seen come through these doors in years. He's asking: “How much? How much?”
A few poets remain, the lucky locked in and tenured over at the state college. Knowledge is its own reward, but if one more alcoholic wonders out loud why I'm not a millionaire there's a fist for an answer. Becky there at the register wanted to be a dancer, ended up a cashier instead. Don't let dreams go to your head, Like spunk swimming up to the ovaries. She had a kid with special needs, who needs to be fed. How do you make a living out of poetry, a payday from a plié? Like diamonds from the mud in the riverbed.
I worked at a bar Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com where all the divorcees would feed on each other, blood-drunk piranhas swimming in vodka and disco. Where brother Alonzo was the parking valet. He'd clock in at 4, start throwing down Colorado bulldogs. Sitting out there in a folding chair in a white tux shirt and a red bowtie, weaving cars in and out between them yellow lines. There's Johnny Carl, the DA, throwing up in the parking lot again, down on his knees beside his red Cadillac but he ain't no slack, he'll be back in court tomorrow— trying to send another poor boy through those jailhouse doors. You damn right he done it.
Before happy hour, the waitresses were talking. One of their boyfriends got so pissed at her apparent dildo addiction he grabbed the thing right out of her hands, opened the apartment door, threw it off the 3rd floor balcony. Still humming. A midnight pink silicone rocket, landed on the August afternoon asphalt, still humming. Still humming . . .
Mama don't live here no more Nobody knows Daddy's name down at the liquor store I got nothing saved But my fear and my rage If I had . . . if I had my way
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