::11:10:07::

::: Upon arriving at the bingo hall on a Tuesday evening in Nowhere :::

Sheeit', she says to me, you better give me a muthafu*kin winner tonight, yo, or I'll take ya' outside, ya' hear? Take ya' out to the parking lot and shank you with a Swiss Army Knife--put a little hole in your kidney, yo, cuz' I NEED that money, dawg*, you know? I NEED that muthafu*kin money...And I do know b/c I actually work (not much, but some) and sheeit' I cain't hardly pay no bills or feed no baby by my own damn self and I cain't hardly feel nothing or see nothing but the red in my eyes and the fridge is empty and the boys in the yard they fightin' over a mayonnaise sandwich, and I'd like to see her win some muthafu*kin money, I'd like to see her smile like she used to back when sh*t was expendable, before "towelhead'" mania and the Beatles and before Jethro Tull put down the flute--back when she was rolling in it, dirty dozens,  back when we was all staring shamelessly into the sun and taunting it to shine, or not to shine, and I'd like to give her a winner, tonight, I'd like to call her number but integrity is all we got in this place now--one of the few places we got it and one of several places we gets to lose it and I just cain't bear to get cut again...not by her that used to shine like Old Miss Argenia's Golden Lucky Buddha--not in here, where the pain is too great and the reward is too mighty and the sun don't shine for us to mock...But I tell her, I got you, sis, I got you, cuz' lie is just a three-letter word and I cain't hardly bear to watch her saunter away like that, shuffle off with her damn self and her damn numbers that don't make no patterns no more no how anyhow, off into the middle of the hall, hopeful into the fray, at her usual spot under the smoke cloud--the vast lingering spirit that eats hope for breakfast and drinks angry like a monk's pen.

Written by: ~ L Amos Sanchez