This is an actual transcript of a conversation I overheard at around 6pm yesterday at a drug store on 3rd avenue and 41st street.
I call this poem:
What the woman behind me at Duane Reade said while talking on her cell phone.
If they want to
Fuckin'
Blow that fuckin' shit up,
I don't care.
I'm not
coming in.
I told them,
"I am not gettin' a fuckin' asthma or a panic attack."
I'm leaving
from tomorrow.
I'm takin'
a car
right after work.
I'm not
comin' back
till September 7th.
I'm not
coming into Manhattan.
No way.
I'm going
to the Bronx.
(Spanish word, Spanish word, Spanish word)
They can fire my ass.
***
PS See below for info on the Red Cross Benefit I'm performing in tonight and my other upcoming shows.
