Balling not in Sofia, Bulgaria

What really startled me is that I didn’t hear them coming. And neither did the dog. Before I knew it, I had a Kalashnikov muzzle on my temple. I felt it, hard, before I heard. It was Bulgarian, I guess, but I knew what it meant: “Don’t move!” So I sat still.

It was a nice evening in the Balkans. Cold war wasn’t far but there was spring in the air. I was sitting in a city park and, until then, I was pretty happy with myself in Sofia.

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Rose is from Texas.

That was my very first night in New Orleans. Big Easy indeed. I had just been mugged in Louis Armstrong Project, right by the French Quarter, by two young black kids – one tall, one short. The big one had me locked up high by the neck. I saw the short one coming with a big pipe in his hands. I kicked my feet; I was wearing tongs… So the short punk went whack, whack, whack, right on my face. I felt, and heard, the bones in my jaw cracking quite clearly. Then I went to black.

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Last train
Near the end of Line 9
A Wednesday night
Dark and grey and cold outside
Neon bright, pissy green
And sad underneath
Train’s almost empty
There’s this kid, white, not hungry
20 y.o. maybe
He’s having a tough time
Too many drinks he can’t handle
Too much drugs he can’t handle
He burps
Then heaves all over the car
And it keeps coming
Like a hiccup
Once he’s finally done
The kid falls asleep
Finally calm on his seat
I get off at the last station
Let him in there
At worst
Some guy will find him at the depot
Call Police
And he’ll spend the night in the tank
At best
He’ll wake up
Somewhere along Line 9
At 5 or 6 am
Going the other way

Some poor fuck
Will have to clean
The shit though

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