Dedicated to culture and critical thought since 1998
3/5/2 Poe + Pro: In the Underworld, Looking Up

In the Underworld, Looking Up
Coulter Jacobs

You will find me with my belt and change and wallet

in my hand, walking to tha courthouse with tha Mexican’s,

Laughing at tha yuppy still stuck at tha metal detector

because his cellphone is in his pocket,


You will find me with tha tattooed miscreants

in tha alley sucking on cigarettes an’ booze,

Or shooting a game of craps ‘gainst a wall

underneath a shattered window and spraypaint,


You will find me riding shotgun in a ’56 Chevy

120 miles an hour with tha stereo roaring Tha Stones,

Hair slicked-back, tallboy of Bud freezing my legs

50 miles t’ tha flaming sin lights of Las Vegas,


You will find me in tha library’s 4th floor

reading a biography on Fante or Dylan,

Scratching my lonesome name into

tha old wooden desk with a switchblade knife,


You will find me in tha music store’s vinyl section

scouring tha racks fer old Elvis Costello records,

Or rummaging through tha cassette tape section

looking fer Bird Parker & Chet Baker albums,


You will find me among tha beaten down workers

shoveling homefries into my mouth on Friday’s,

Or under tha hood of a rich man’s car—sweating

and trying not to curse in tha shotgun sun,


You will find me at tha corner watering hole

with a cold, 2 dollar draft in my hand,

Sinking tha eightball and making my way outside

to light up a smoke and stare at tha faces of spiderwebs,


You will find me in tha museum of Death, downtown

With first cold shockwaves of love in my bones,

Grabbing tha hand of a glittery, sun-spawned redhead

crossing tha street in front of a choking, crooked city bus,


You will find me saying hello to tha old man at tha corner

liquor store, walking to tha back section fer a 40 of Old E,

Or stopping by on my beach cruiser to check out

tha new issue of tha Auto Trader, or Tattoo International,


You will find me in tha window of my Blvd. apartment

strumming Social Distortion songs on a beat-up Fender,

Watching tha driver’s hurry from green light to red light

from house on tha hill to madhouse of tha dollarbill mind,


You will find me in tha backyard with Pops, sun shining,

chopping and lowering a 1949 Ford Coupe,

As tha planes from tha alien Los Angeles Airport

softly scream through tha drowning, suffering sky,


You will find me standing in front of tha Bonnie & Clyde car;

a 1934 Ford sprayed with bullets from a Tommy-gun,
Or next to that gazing at tha Dutch Schultz, Al Capone car

this one bullet-proof—imagining tha money changing hands,


You will find me, ah shit nevermind, I know none a you are

looking t’ find me anyway—



March 21, 2001

2:53 p.m.


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