The Ass Wars

No one knows how it started, just that one day it did, and now we all have
to live with the consequences.

Let me explain:

Near Port Authority on a certain strip of 8th Avenue, 

around the corner from a methadone clinic, 

wedged in between a flea pit hotel 

and an Ethiopian man selling bootleg CD mixes, 

stands a flame-like structure which attracts the moths in New York City, 

the rock moths who play in bands, 

and rents to them it's airless rooms. 

This is the place where dreams are made, 

myths take root, and legends are built. 

This place is called the Music Building.

In the dimly lit, smokey hallways, 

electric muffled sounds seep out from the walls 

to vibrate your solar plexus with bass frequencies, 

while you wait for the ancient, heavily repainted elevator. 

There is a section of wall covered in ads, postcards, and taped corners 

left over from old papers only partially ripped down.

One advertised for a band seeking new members. 

It read, "Drummer and bassist wanted." 

Late at night while no one was looking, 

an enterprising stoner with a pen 

made a slight, but significant alteration. 

Thanks to a couple of strategically placed X's, 

the sign was transformed. 

It read, "Bummer and assist wanted."

Of course, this meant war.

From that day, all signs seemed to be posted as a challenge 

to discover the amount of secret, hidden arrangements 

of the 3 letters A-S-S in sequence. 

The ads were defaced so quickly, 

it was as if you could see one guy taping a sign 

up on the wall and behind him formed a long line 

of giggling dudes holding pens.

The last sign I saw originally read: 

"Let's keep this place vermin free!!!! 

Please, please, please, please, please, 

if you eat food in the room,  

you must dispose of trash before you leave. 

This is not a hotel, there is no maid."

After the pen boys had their turn, it said:

"Let's keep this ass vermin free!

Ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass,

if you eat ass in the room, 

you must dispose of ass before you leave.

this is not a hotel, there is no maid."

I really meant to write a story about my motorcycle jacket, 

and all the fabulous rides I had while wearing it, 

but those stories have completely gone from my head.

Sorry to have gotten you here on false pretenses.