Vlad

That's the thing about this city...I just took a piss on an effin' graffiti stained wall. My life's gone to shit but I'm on an effin' ball. Im drunk as shit, got enough enough my pocket to get another beer. One for Tommy, cheers cheers cheers, cheers! Seven in my hand and seven in the clip. Around here a cig butt is a fag, don't take offense. Its a difference of a tag. I look to see the bare ass sky, the moon's butt naked. And so am I. Looks like a fang of some other effin' shit. I like to eat the kitty in the midst of my warm bliss. Its worth 60$ for a laugh and a piss. Ive got one more dollar if you'll tell me this: "One for the money, two for the uhhhh". What was I saying *laughs* uhhh 54 kilos of cat piss yknow?

This a convo with Vlad, a homeless mother effin' lover of a man. Russian. Boston. I love him to death. My death? Hell no, but his if he lets.

"Jesus effin' Christ, women? Im going to a fucking bar, man"

"Do you hear me?"

"Yea *with a smile in my voice, knowing he'll get through this, knowing he has choice.*"

"The moon tonight is lovely (I forgot to his word)"

"Man I hate all this VCU shit, man. All the cops, all this fuckin' shit"

Me writing in a flurry, him scrabbling to live. To drink. To run.

To sleep???

"Hey, Gracie can I tell you something?"

The story ain't the word count, I think I might be sick. Writing, writing, writing. Sittin' in my piss. Writin' on the his dick. The urgency of this. The put it off. The riff. This this this this, this the shit I miss. Please continue on my dear. You court day on the 30th. A suite at Georgia's, typewriter, miss. You never never ask for shit. Guinness in my slurrpee. Fuck. Why'd you do that shit? Dont matter, gotta charge our clip. No charge station in Monroe, ramps not there. Anger. Whoa. VCU Police, mall cops of uni. I swear I swear, he didn't do THAT to me. RUN RUN RUN. Rolls my wheels. Hands of feet. Dirty plans. Homeless shelter, food, and go. MCV, WE MUST GO! Head round city, round round bout. Thank you, Adam. Aint no doubt. I owe him twenty, twenty two effin' dollars. So much new. I cant take it. Must go home. To the psych ward. Twelfth time home.

Home. Thats the thing about my city. Finally home. Thats my city. Im home grown. This city is yours, this city is mine. Smells of piss, smells of pine. I aint got NO time for wine. Listen to our stories, please just take the time. While you won't wear your masks, we are left to die. Our non-pc manner. Our dirty grimy clothes. You're one degree from with us. And I'm sittin' writin' prose?!? I do all my work late, I find, I find the time. Yea, Ill call her back. This is most important. This is life, or piss. I've got a lot to talk about. Ive got a lot to do. Id rather spend up all this time, all this time with you. I really don't think that its waste, like all they seem to do. Spring break mutha fuckers, lets go burn a pew.

"Im really proud of you for writing this paper for school, man."

"Aw, thanks Vlad. Honestly, that means a lot. Its not for effin' school, its for my career."

"Yea I know, I know."

Aw man, forget about it...he says and trails away into another story Ill her coherently someday.

He has to charge his phone. I write on, though I know. Its one more shot for Boston, one more shot for home. The thing about this city, is Im not really done. People to see, places to go. Im literally pissing my pants to finish this. The piss ran down my leg. I really won't win this time, but fool you will not peg. I write my prose too rhyme-y. I am light with tongue. Thats the thing about this city, its always been so young.

The cops here are REAL racists. The bigot blood runs deep. Some are nice sure, but a glass of water deep. The water then is poisoned but much to their dismay. We fight, we cry. We love, we die. Its happening this May. I think it might be bad this time. Much too disarray. Please please, dont ban me from this sight. I really need a shot at this. I wish, I may. I might...

Does the word count matter, if it dilutes soul? How many young black mens' deaths will continue to be told? We will not be silent. We will not keep, run. I must. I must. Move on, my dear. Remember, I'll be one. Friends in RVA, from Vegas, to the bay. Really, I just rather sit, and write OUR fears away. This city, it will thrive. Thrive. Survive, then, thrive. All cities tend to do this, but this one takes my pride. All these words should punch cops in the face, and put the kids to bed. All while Vlad is in a ditch, one place to lay your head. Please, dear Lord, help him not be dead.

I write on to reach the word count, for this I must be clear. For one word would do the trick if you would only hear. I really don't have time for esoteric shit. I mispell the word, you write it with one click. The thing about this city, is we are all alike. But, we are all so different, some different out of spite. If only RVA would know that this their might comes from deep within its tragic past. Its plight. Tear down its broken histories, statues of lost hope. Rise from ashes, burn the classes. This is what we toke.