A girl outside

A girl outside the Cafe Royale, slight, small, beautiful, hoodie and tight pants. She came from Chicago without money, all the way through San Fran crashing in couches and sharing rides, she is an artist. Artist, well, you know, means nothing. She makes videos. And the guy smoking across from her, gangsta rap, he is German-undocumented-works in a taco store. Negroes kill latinos all the time, they know all latinos carry cash, latinos get payed under the table, they carry their cash everywhere, a lot of cash. And he rolls his cigarettes and is bold and wears a cap as El Chico wears his cap, and he reminds me of home. The guys in the train. Andy. The one who left his three years old child and played the guitar and met the small, blond girl, and the small, blond girl has a bottle of whiskey in her purse. The owner of the folk store, how do you play these spoons? you play them like this, the fiancee of the woman who plays uke. The man who knows me because he has studied the zodiac signs. The girl who dances and talk, the other four girls that just dance. The beautiful one that kissed me and who I kissed, we kissed exactly at the same time, we kissed without a word. We knew we had to kiss, we had to kiss a lot in all the rooms, before the city burst, and all the rooms were full of vinyls, and little pukes, and graffiti, and love.