Here Comes Tony

by Jef Otte

 

Here comes Tony Cecil driving his pride and liability, a

     shitty sea-green DeVille amply rusty, trunk strapped shut

     with a bungee, and it clatters like a diesel. 

Here comes Tony Restreppo who used to run a chop-shop in

     Terra-Cotta, WI. Now he socks hot sex to a Russian plus-

     size model called Katja. Look at that motherfucker

     chomp kalamatas. Later he jerks off to autopsy photos. 

Here comes Tony Classic with a wallet made of plastic, a

     plastic bag that formerly hosted a sandwich. 

Here comes Tony Sellers pell-mell on shaky-wheeled ten-

     speed down Alamo hill. He’s got six sweaty dollars for

     pall malls & hot fries. He spots Rhonda and runs out the

     store yelling and smelling the smells of going broke:

     engines that run rich, cook-stink and garbage, blunt
     breath, dry-rot, wet-rot, overgrowth, weeds gone to seed,

     and heat. Corner store clerks behind glaciers of plate

     glass. Cockroaches that bank and scoot into the dark. 

Here’s Tony Bologna sweet-talking. He’s going to talk you

     into growing pot in your cellar. He’s going to get

     you rich quick slinging energy drinks, skin revitalizers,

     dehydrated fruit rehydrators with high-rated pliable

     fibers. 

Here comes Tony Two-Time. He’s pulling on his fingers. A

     News 4 helicopter cuts across the sky.