Sunday, August 8, 2010


Cars and people and leaves

are skittering and scurrying

up and down

39th street.

And you can tell

the wind is just itchin'

to raise a little hell

and the light

is slowly fadin'

to a gun-metal grey

and it's officially

just another

Friday afternoon

in the new millenium, people,

just another Friday afternoon

winding itself up (or running

straight down)

into just another Friday night
in this overgrown sandbox of a cow-town.

And it don't really matter

what your story is

or where you come from,

why you're here or whether

you're the prodigal son of Sam Walton

or the red-headed stepchild

of Sam, the butcher,

whether the ladies

will soon be cooing to you

their sweet siren tunes

or it's just you and your stereo

and a gallon jug of wine in a tiny room:

it's just another Friday night

and one less night

of your life...

What are you gonna do?

What have you got to say

about it all and, anyway,

who's gonna hear you?

Seems like Friday night

used to mean somethin' once, right?

Somethin' you started thinkin' about

come the middle of the week.

Somethin' that goosed your engine a little,

got the blood up to a good roil.

Yeah, Friday Night used to mean somethin', alright.

Now, it's just plain old mean.

That's right, brothers and sisters,

it's just another Friday night here in KC,MO

where it seems like newly-monied white bread

have always run the show,

always set the "who's who,"

(the ones that always play the same goddamn

Dave Mathews, ABBA and Jimmy Buffet tunes
on the jukebox, that’s who).

And there's nothin' much

to talk about, really,

nothin' you can do,

nothin' much to think about, even,

so don't even think about

askin' me what I'm thinkin'

'cause my thoughts aint worth

a ten-penny nail and my ass

aint worth a dime-bag of ditch-weed.

'Sides, none o' these half-assed

lords and ladies 'round here

could afford to pay me

for my time, anyway,

not unless I decided to let it go

for a blue light special discount rate

(in which case, most likely,

the gesture would come "too little-too late").


you know,

to tell the truth,

right about now,

as the stars and the streetlights

are just now comin' out

and the sun has finally settled down,

I'm wonderin' if it's too late

to fire somethin' up, maybe,

to fly somethin' up the flagpole,

to send out the coyote-call to anyone listening

and finally fall forward

into some brief, but respectable, formulation

of the good life (or something almost like it),

to jump-start the failing heart

and lungs and central nervous system

of this one-of-many

(limited edition),


(gone before you know it),

Friday nights.

-Jason Ryberg, 2007

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