Get Street Poetry Off the Street.

Today I went to the bank. Generally it wouldn’t matter where I went today but I swear there is a story here.

So, today while walking to the bank, I saw, from across the street, a hippie (with a dog), pestering people. He was basically standing right in front of the bank so I knew there was no possible way of avoiding this guy. I had no idea what he wanted (besides money) or what his special skill set was in which to acquire the money (because in Boulder you can’t just ask, you have to dance for your dollars).

I wait at the light. I look behind me to see if there are any suckers that can distract him from me.

No one.

I know he sees me, like it’s the fucking national geographic channel and some crazy animal shit is about to go down.

The white-light-man tells me I can walk. When I am almost to him:

“Can I read you a poem,” The Hippie asks.

A poem? Really? That’s your dance? You want to read people poems?

Dude, don’t you realize that people go out of there way to avoid poems, and they are definitely not going to stand on the street in 35 degree weather to listen to one.

“No.” I replied. Because I did not want to listen to his stupid ass poem.

“What?” he asked as if he was shocked and appalled by the idea that no one wanted to hear his poems.

“NO!” I repeated.

He shrugs and asks someone else who has so graciously decided to walk by.

I enter the bank.

The tellers at this particular bank are so incredibly friendly it’s almost disgusting. I’m depositing a check and the young woman asks me about the weather.

“It’s cold.”

She then proceeds to ask me about my weekend.

“I have no plans.”

The teller is surprised by my answer as I must look so much cooler to her than I actually am.

“Well, she says, “sometimes it’s nice to not have to do anything and just chill out.”

“Yeah,” I reply, “except that’s not really…um, well, sure. Actually I’m just lame.”

The young teller woman, must obviously have a girl’s night out planned with margaritas or martinis followed by late night dancing at the club/grinding on some hotties followed by a late hot tub dip, and then concluding with passing out on silk sheets—Only to wake up to mimosas and a spa day followed by another night (with her man this time) full of martinis, fancy dinners and tango dancing.

So the Teller with the Plans hurries up my deposit as quickly as her fancy fingers can, smiles, and says, “well, Happy Friday!”

Happy Friday indeed. I left, did some other shit. Then of course, on my way home, I had to encounter the HIPPIE again. This time I was stuck right next to him at the light.

“Want to hear a poem this time around?” He asks coyly.

“No. I sure don’t.”

“Why? Are you afraid you’ll fall in love today?”

Yes. Hippie. That’s exactly it. I’m afraid I’ll fall in love with poetry and then I’ll have to go to all those fucking open mic nights and slit my wrists and dye my hair black and talk while snapping my fingers. How did you guess it?

Actually the real reason that I don’t want to hear your hippie poem is because I don’t want to have to tell you that it sucks. Because it does. I can already tell just my looking at your haircut. And after you read it to me, and look at me with those sad hippie eyes, well then you’re going to ask for a dollar. And I can’t pay for bad poetry. Why don’t you go inside the bank and ask the Teller with all the Plans if she wants to hear your poem.

Because I could tell by looking in her fancy eyes that she is totally ready to fall in love today. In fact, she was ready to fall in love yesterday. And there is no other way to fall in love then through hippie street poetry.