four hours into a day
Monday, November 30th, 2009A thousand years ago it was rutted streets brimming with sewage and waste… not much has changed, now, has it?
Kept awake at night by the sound of the ghetto bird and sirens and shouting. There’s enough light in the sky to throw shadows but I’ll be damned if I can see a single star.
A truck emblazoned with the words “Graffiti Busters” ambles along, slowly filling each alley with the city’s idea of a message – “Everything is the same shit-brown. Everything is the same raincloud-grey.” – over “This is my name!”, “This is what I have to say!”, and “This is what I can do!” scrawl. Not one voice is spared the over-speak whitewash.
You have to step quickly to avoid the garbage… its tentacles would wrap around your ankle and pull you into a storm drain if you didn’t jump that puddle.
Everyone looks tired; perhaps they were kept awake by the sounds of the helicopter and sirens, perhaps they were the fugitives.
The price of living increases every year and there has to be some reciprocal to that… but dying isn’t getting any cheaper, either.
… and they quit selling my favorite brand of fortified wine.
Addendum:
Apparently the deranged rapist who shot and killed four cops the other day was suspected of being in the ‘hood. (and here I thought the flight of the ghetto bird was a nightly amusement)
But does this explain the commotion upstairs?
Note to self: In the future, lock the front door before retiring for the night.


