Minstrels Anonymous on Bandcamp

Saturday, February 29, 2020

The Fucking Food Court

The Fucking Food Court

I’m at the fucking food court

Lunch break from work

Tourists doddering around in the worst clothes money can buy

Stiffer and whiter than a George Segal sculpture

Reading the menu boards with piercing concentration

and then wandering aimlessly away

to Johnny motherfucking Rockets

College graduate executives from Iowa City

Roman holiday big vacay to The Big Orange

hot fun in the summertime

next week it’s off to Las Vegas to catch Rod Stewart

I march to the Mediterranean stand

Greek salad like an Argonaut

I take the table next to six children

Six thirty-year old children

They’re not eating their food

They’re laughing at their food


“I LOVE FRENCH FRIES, TOO!” she smiled

One of them stared at six packs of catsup laid out in front of him

“I NEED MORE KETCHUP! I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH KETCHUP!” he yelled, smiling. He wore thick glasses with a prescription writ out for a telescope

A very serious black woman in a car coat said very softly, “Don’t yell, Donnie, it’s not polite. Eat up, we only have half an hour”

“BUT! BUT! BUT!” Donnie protested louder than a solicitor

“SHHHH” she shushed

“I need more ketchup!” he whispered oh so very loudly, grinning until his thick glasses tilted crookedly on his face

Small children walked by a few stared at the old children

The old children didn’t notice

They were in their own world

A world of French Fries

Monday, February 10, 2020

The Man With The Silver Wheels

The man with the silver wheels
Sits in his chair with a quiet grunting motor
The wheels sometimes squeak
A general sound to let him know things are moving
The sound of motion
Ambulatory audio
Steel wheels minus DJ
He sits in his chair as it trudges down the broken, cracked, lumpy sidewalk
Cruel concrete uncaring about his disability

How did he get this way? Was he born sitting down?
No, no, no, no, no
Drunken Saturday night in his muscle car
The wheelman and his friends celebrating James Dean
Let’s re-enact the chicken race
The chicken race
Why did the chicken race to cross the road
Camaro flipping like a pinwheel until his tailbone cracked
Ambulatory audio of crushed metal, chrome, glass
Ejaculated gas and oil and burned rubber
Now he’s the man with the silver wheels

One night he trundled down an empty sidewalk
A Dollar-ride scooter stood horizontally before him defying him to pass
Incensed with rage he pushed the poorly propped ride
It crashed down with its little disco lights flickering and beeping sadly
Feeling empowered the following night he went out with everyone gone
And pushed down more Dollar-ride scooters
More tragic beeping sad LED lights flickering
It made him smile for the first time in awhile

It became a nocturnal ritual
The man with the silver wheels
Pushed down Rent-A -Bikes
He went on a tear for a week
He got all DWP* (*drunk with power)
Night after night shoving over all kinds of transpo
Shopping carts

Then a man in a van with two dozen Dollar-ride scooters saw him
Started screaming
The man with the silver wheels ducked out into an alley
Pulled over to a dark corner
Pitch black jet black starless and bible black
Hiding in the red brick wings with slats of lights piercing the dark
Red brick wearing spray paint names
XXX Klan
Hid in the shadows of his crime
The vandal of wheels waited for refreshing silence
He spun around and went home Home to the House of Wheels