The Selling Out of Sam for the Blueness of Windex

The saint stands gently in wallabies outside

the spanking new circle k on route 66.

He reaches into 501 blues, 

taken from the goodwill and

finds an unopened pack of double mint 

and sets his sight on his second job tonight.

Praying for a twin score, he tugs urgently on 

the thin red strand, yanks the foil cap, while 

noticing the bleary reflection of pontific golden 

arches in the puddle he jumps over.  

He pops the stiff stick in his mouth, the mint mingles 

with listerine, giving him a quixotic sense of safety.

Pulling ultra sheer hanes over his clean shaven 

head, forces his pierced nose tight against his 

handlebars.  His thick bottom lip mashes his 

pointy vandyke. 

The man pulls his hooded champion over his head, 

and covers his eyes with raybans. 

After tugging on goldmax latex he reaches 

for the stainless steel handle. Noticing the smudged 

windows he thinks of the blueness of windex.

His glove squeaks like nikes high top on waxed parquet 

or a new jeep bumper rubbing a parallel parked car.  

He hasn’t driven a jeep lately, and isn’t ram tough. 

His big toe feels the sudden frigidaire pumped 

through the gaping holes in his used adidas superstars. 

His trigger finger itches.  

He walks pigeon toed to the register noticing 

a million colorful brand names. 

The thief looks up-- 

holding a remington 

with a shaky hand

behind the counter

sweating full metal jackets.

The second slug is sanctification. 

The scene burns 200 watts 

between his eyes 

then fades to black.