Usually, I rest in bed on the weekends

and write.

I don’t go out.

The day can only be appreciated

when I stay in one place, and type.

But then, my friend swings by

and I am carried away

like an autumn leaf, blown by some strange wind.

I see a girl, in a coffee shop

tall, and slender

wearing yoga pants.

As she stands still, waiting for her drink

her butt has many expressions.

It smiles and frowns 

I try to understand it.

It’s happy, I ass-ume.

“I need to become famous,” I said.

“How will you do that?” My friend asked me.

“By studying profound truth and writing about it.”

At the BMW dealership, we met a big Iranian salesman

and test drove an electric-blue M4.

“My last customer was 70 years old and belonged to the auto club,” he said. “I told him, ‘I don’t care where you belong. Slow down.’ He was going 70 miles-per-hour on a freeway on-ramp, while I was trying not to piss my pants.”

“I need a haircut,” I complained.

My friend looked-up the local barbershop and dropped me off.

I got one from this sweet young thing.

She spoke English, and listened to me rave about my accomplishments.

Then I gave her a 10-dollar gratuity, and she gave me a grapefruit soda.

I got picked up by my friend.

“I’m not going to buy this car,” he said. “I’m going to look for something cheaper.”

He could tell I was disappointed.

“But this car has style–it’s satanic, worldly, wonderful.”

“I like to save my money,” he said.

We went to his other friend’s house.

And the conversation was about the new constructions in the neighborhood—

how it was raising the value

or lowering the value.

Then I went to a bar scene, and socialized with black people. I could not hear the sound of my own voice.

They kept doing these weird hand-shakes I didn’t know how to do,

and at the end of the evening, I liked most of them.

On the drive home, I wondered why I spent my day that way.

“Sometimes, you just have to throw money out the window,” I said.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”