The morning of the heist I was sleeping, dreaming, cradled up, creeping, into what might have been considered the fetal position.
I was wishing, to be off somewhere, someplace, without a trace of this life, this semblance, my existence.

But, it was too late. I stared at the clock, and i knew, the reality of my disposition, it grew. It screamed at me like a bad poem, a broken haiku, a motherless jew, but this my friend, you already knew.

The horn it blared and i jumped out of bed. I grabbed the handgun and i said, "see ya mom, love you, be back tomorrow," little did she know the origins of my sorrow. So I sat shotgun in the ford pickup truck

a loner, stranger, not part of the plan, asshole, said 'what's up',


and p, he laughed, this situation to him, it was as passed, calculated and straight, less hesitative, without hate, we all were there, we all were sqaure, and quite frankly, we all were irate.

an angry criminal is precise, and this was the device, humility it would have to suffice, for once i was willing to sacrifice.

03/04/2009

Author's Note: vernacular

Posted on 03/05/2009
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