Nobody's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Friday, October 21, 2005


Well, my bun, mister wanglo saxon, it's true what they say, New York City can turn the desolation into beauty and the spirit into poverty and I saw it when I sat down in the subway car, I heard a man cough himself up and I watched him die in the middle of himself in the middle of the crowded subway car and home, home here is little more than a cavity, wherein near regularly my body aches and my back aches and my bottom aches and my eyes ache, my guts constituted themselves, at which point my bottom fell out of me, stained the floor, and I high-step to the door thinking I have got to, got to get out of here and so I jump the traintracks, flip a hatchet, and I start going backwards with my thoughts turned down and I will steel and asphalt and iron and concrete and I write words across every discarded scrap, every piece of debris I can find. I love this town.