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Capitol Latino

Politics, Culture, Reporters, Thieves

Tonight I was archiving through a dusty Inbox for a custom domain I’m to finally put to good use, when I discovered an email from George Hay dated 4 March of this year.  The subject line is skid marks but I very much prefer the title Blood, Bills, and Paper.  Perhaps you agree —

All I see is
blood, bills, and paper.
and more,
more, more of the same.

But you are
oh! so quick to quip
Its not my fault,
I’m under the whip.
Dying in a cell
with paperback walls
and Pier One bile.
Good God,
I haven’t moved in awhile.
On the road so long
I cant remember,
how to live at home.
Just cigarettes
and coffee all damn day
spendin’ time passin’ away
blood, bills, and paper
more more of the same.

My brother lost his job
so I gave him mine.
I can’t find work
or love or time.
And the rail
is the only sound
that lets me know
movement is my home.
Bored with melancholy,
and burned out,
on education and apathy.
I’d rather talk to myself,
than be the gentle creature
that kind catcher,
in the rye.
But they say there’s
jobs in Detroit
if your handy,
with a gun and a joint.
Gonna find a new game
with less hassle,
And no goddamn point.
Less channels and
A little less choice.
Someplace where
I can pretend to
hear my voice
above the
blood, bills, and paper.
More blood, bills, and paper
more more of the same.

Plastic is the future,
and electricity
is the new combustion
But I don’t have the know how,
the patience, or the gumption.
It’s a buyers market
sell your retirement
and grab the future.
Plant and pray for rain.
I’d make a killing
but my money wont buy
a half price
pie in the sky.
There’s not a penny
pound or shilling,
that could save me now.
Hold onto the wheel
And keep your weight on the plow
this is no place for
man, woman, or savior.
Wading knee deep
in blood, bills, and paper
blood, bills, and paper.


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