 You can tell by my tires that not everybody who's driven with me is still alive. Also, that I like my drinks neat bottled and in a bus stop. Also, that we're drowning in precinct paper department store floor plans and applications to the moon. We can change the color of our snot from gifted to heart attack and tell you about ashes, where all these angels coming from smelling like the cigarette that fills. And why is the man on the safe side of his head lights freezing up? You got nothing to say at my funeral, I'll speak on your behalf. Heroin in my smile. Mountain made a flat land robbery among some things on my mind. The last store run in the name is shared after life Friday to the field through I'm a tall tale on earth. But here's to that angel that never appeared to America. In a night of dog paddle. In a batch of hangovers looking for a home. You know a liar wouldn't live this long. And that's my human will fence to speak. On a pair of rambling dice that have unique tempers and young souls that say shut up about our city. I hear title months crash over the coast while I lie. The streets teak down pieces as reservoir art on the faces of stragglers. They're sad news from back home and mean we have to grow up on his behalf. Stumble back to a car for the last day and the truth is still but still liquor. Mission Street will be proud of me. I'm a mural man. Almost organized. Remember when my lunch to wake up last walking on morning if it was worth it man I'm three decades hungry. And reservoir art is all out of the sea. And I'm 2,000 miles from my first fight maybe no one really survived. Maybe I wrote my first poem for no reason. A tour guide through your robbery he also is. Cigarettes saying look what I did about your silence. Ransom water in box spring gold this decade is only for accent grooming I guess. Ransom water in box spring gold the corner store must die. War games I guess all these tongues from his junk. The start of master strikes and begins and ends in restaurant bathrooms that some people use and other people clean. Are you telling me it's a rag in the sky? Waiting for you yeah. We've written the same we set a stage you know we should have fit in warehouse jobs with the communists but now more corridor and hallway have walked into our lives. Now the whistling is less playful in the bar bar overcrowded to my dear. If it is not a city it is a prison. If it has a prison it is a prison not a city. When a courtyard talks on behalf of military issue all walks take place outside of the body. Dear life to your left a medieval painting to your right you know none of this really makes an impression. Crop people living in thin air you have five minutes to learn how to see through this bridge. And when the mass goes sideways bar bar becomes the floor bar bar becomes the roof 40 feet into the sky becomes out of bounds. When the mass breaks in half mind which way the eyes go you know they killed the world for the sake of giving everyone the same backstory. We're watching Gary Indiana fight itself into the sky old pennies for when for that wind feeling you get before the hood goes up and over your headache. Pennies that stick together mocking all aspirations I mean stuck together pennies was the first newspaper I've read along with the storefront dwelling army that always lets us down where the Holy Spirit favors the background. Souls in a situation that offer 100 ways to remain a loser. Souls watching a clock hoping their eyes don't a lot of sad people was we talking about again. The narrator asked the graveyard at 10 minutes flat said the graveyard the funeral only took 10 minutes they never tell that to anyone again you just gonna pin the 90s on me. All 30 years of them. Then why should I know the difference between sleep and satire the pyramid of corner stores fell on our heads man we died right away. That building wants to climb up and jump off another building these are downtown decision. Somewhere on this planet it's August 7th and we running down the rest thinking one more needs to come with me man what evaporated on earth so that we could be sent back down. A conductor of minds in a city wise symphony waving souls to sing. He also is you know apparently too much of San Francisco was not there in the first place. So this dream requires more condemned Africans to put another way state violence rises down. Or still life is just getting warmed up. Or army life is looking for a new church and ignored all other suggestions or. Folk tell writers have not made up their minds as to who is gonna be their friend. You know this is the worst downtown yet not brought a cigarette everywhere I've taken many a walk to the back of a bus. They let on out the back of a story tell his prison sentence then on out the back of slave scars but this is my comeback face. I left my watch on the public bathroom sink and took the toilet with me do it at the first bus I saw eating single mothers half alive. It flew through the bus line number then on out the front of the White House they hopefully you find comfort downtown but if not. We brought you enough cigarettes filters to make a decent winner called a special species of handshake let's all know who's king. And what's the lifespan of uniform clock you know this coffin needs to quit acting like those are birds singing rusty nails have no wings have no voice other than that of a white world dining at book pages in the gas pump. Catchy isn't it the way three news is the rule of the way potato sag mask oh so well with radio codes of the way condemned Africans fought they way back to the ocean only to find waves made in 1920s burnt up piano parts. European backdoor deals and red flowers for widows who spent all day in the sun mumbling in San Francisco red flowers but what's the color of a doctor visit their book titles in the streets. Book titles like hero you'd make a better zero or a fur coat lady the president is dead or tell me back in children or they hung up their bodies in their own museums and other book titles pulled from a drum solo run here hero lied to hide in place. All the bullets and 10 precincts know where to go. There's no heaven or any other good idea in the sky politics means that people did it and people do it. I understand that when in San Francisco and other places that was never really did I bet this ocean thinks it's a notion but it's not. It's just 60 Mission Street all know who's King. King of thin things you know like America I'm proud to deserve to die. I'm going to eat my dinner extra slow tonight in this police day candy dispenser you all call the neighborhood no set of manners goes unpunished. Never mind a murder is insomnia or the tea kettle preparing everyone for police hours. Shit man when a drummer is present they are God. You know I am not an eye. I'm a black commons writing my new tattoo out on bus station glass making tattoos all afternoon trying to talk myself in the scene a decade through you know I must really be the devil's front man standing at an empty bus that I imagine in fact carries paintings of people and the man drunk behind the wheel has to choose between a black and white toddler after school in America on a California street that doesn't need a name nor California. Nobody on the street has a job and therefore no one is there. I colored my presses gun and dance floor for him in the same day. The joke began. The walk on the bus seats is fine by me as long as I get to the front. The joke concluded and Tuesday is rotten super downhill entertainment or commotion in the ashtray the day the jail quotas get filtered the day that the planet plays flat. And maybe the capitalist says stadium seats on fire and calls it economic progress. Communists got plenty of time to finish the cigarette and lie to his boss a killer lying down in front of a tank. I have a small statue built in my chest and also an anchor upside down in the air worried about the walls. I forgot that the ceiling was closing in on me too. It's my take on my alcoholism. I must over a meal like five years ago. It's my take on the look on my face. And she got a little took another step up the staircase and for a second forgot all occupants of the world beginning with this house. I'm an action hero of one street proportion. You know rap music is the way to count blessings. The 80s were better than his fiction. I have a piece of fence mess through my skull. I'll be half eaten my entire life always walking beside myself with a gun in my head and another one pointed at passersby walking in and out of myself. But you know, I'm always happy to see you with a miraculous route you took through my threat. Honest pay is a knife in my arm. Honest paying my chest a broken lock on a monument. I tell you the truth. I forget what my hands look like. What I did with them or what kind of third eye the handcuffs cut into my wrist. There were hammers in my cradle, which made some people scared to check on me because God would have a devil on State Street would have a resurrection and I'd be a menace. Menace the veins. The veins of the city protects a precinct flesh. You know, people actually work in Mary here. The son actually comes up. Have you heard the one about ghetto dwellers bang. They all duck man. We look with the heathen jug in man. What is that my bullet? Who is that your son? Have you heard the one about last names? As you know, that late night talk is the car door to the soul. I don't think we've been there before. Some type of criminal heaven can churn every headlight for miles. If the journey has pain, it's the way I came. My name is on this seat. World tea among minds would be my right hand or be a brand new hammer or wolf traveling at the speed city's end. Interpretations of shot men. You know hands are the only place souls are actually found. If this get a road trip to maybe you should mind me. Or maybe I paid too much attention to this black coat as I was growing up in a wrong living room. At least the walls was nice guys. At least I had this seat. At least I got this ocean when her words freeze and central time is up. When my family relapses in the suicidal neighborhoods and can't depend on me. When black children are sad. When there are guns everywhere. When death is here and I'm a new kind of nearsighted and she's a new kind of lovely death is. Rights of front yard passes. People getting beat up. I say I'm not paranoid enough. You got a taste for violence. I've winked at three funerals. The Lord gave his only begotten temper to me. Death knows me by nickname. I call her nothing cute. Lord let me see the enemy in my circle. Let me see that the enemy is my circle. Let my circle kill me. Let me not stay dead. So y'all know who I am down to the street signs. Streets pass my life back and forth. Pass me under gambler jokes and cigarettes and here I am thinking this is what you call driving at night. Or this is what you call 35 miles away. Freeway and all smeared all over city. Tell me how you write letters with a building on top of your head. With a building feasting on you. With a thousand backs turned to your kids without her subtle gesture to interpret in the middle of a backfire resurrection with a president. Who was out to kill you. I only got one gun to speak up. I sleep good in August and nobody talks back in traffic. Interestingly handsome bastard. Had to match a bounce on me. Motherless though. Less of a child. Projectiles become tires. Choirs suck down liquor. Five floors become audience for a dancing killer. You just a dancing killer. Midwater walkout line all over the state. I've seen a bullet become a chiefscape. Bodies in a bargain. Handsome but hardened prison. Air, Spanish sales. Black as well. Runtella by my level. And what you see me do the water. And what you see me do the men. The last of a dime group of friends. Man another city in. Shit we had the funeral in the garage but I think he was long gone. A narrator on distant rooftop smoking with new friends. From beyond the vigil skyline serious footwork can be seen. Especially when lucid quaintances look at the candles and flowers without providence on their minds. Introducing you to the colony when the concrete was in its prime and now for shuffles. Two different dates share the same daylight. We slow walk from the cornerstone to a flashback dust doing most of the talking. Talking about weird wars on the streets and whoever is fixing the drinks tonight. Whoever it is must be suicidal because there is a chess board underneath these tough guys. From beyond the vigil's jungle is the easy side of autobiography. You know a pretty interesting place to start a war from front yards up and having problems with the world. You know it's easy range for the angel everything under the sun. That's right. I could cut my throat with the sun. So you hold your breath on my street if that's what you've always done. I'll tell you what is I say. They say all dust eventually has to be human. In his pockets is winter already. Knuckled in wrist and sound and street green letters here lies in half asleep young skin and tattered. Page one. Page one. Off-stair cases are open air will be the first to talk at the poor so will it. Page two. Just pieces of subtitle. Mouse talk last. Page three. Someone's dead already. Someone has taught him a sign. Page four. Every system is suicidal. Of course. So will a bus loops its route last stop already. And let me sleep again. It's all a staircase here and I remember when we were out of eye with the lowest branch crime breath into the hand of an avenue. Our shirts may somewhere in the land of firsthand trash wasn't yet trash running away really isn't running away shoes with witness and informal prayer. Something like I know you see me. What should I call you. I'll never be anything. That you need to forgive. And we been new having years ago. Here comes our street shoulders which are his which is a homegrown cadence on a city bus rubber and brief fire. He was the saint of strays. The first story you learn in San Francisco. Moving with Sliver Street. Which is his my little brother slides the smoke system. A lot of God can happen in three seconds. Not much. Not much heaven though. Here is a man before fight you know leave me alone type character. Emerging from the penniless death of a one way street fiction. That's a fancy way of saying I'm gonna make it even if I have to drive backwards. All I got is chord changes in a thousand backhands driving the street like I'm choking in car full of nephews hasn't been a son since November and there hasn't been a street I can't choke the death this city better back down. You see this gun on the table and something about staring until it all feels stable what will not protect everyone on my death sleep late my son better be quick my daughter better shoot first because we fall for no one you know we fall for nothing. Okay the first thing you'll feel is a heat this lady would tell me I'm telling me about possession a drink life need is what I mostly hear most of the world leaves me alone to breathe small like a giant to go to jail every once in a while when a genocide kicks up in late May when politicians have to too easy a time on gas and backwards out of one way street in honor of myself shit and in honor of you if you understand the nature of the world. How long I've been just like my father one hell of a resemblance says the anxiety of the neighborhood this is a crossroads or a crossroads near but so much crossroads people getting the habit of turning back turn back only to find themselves you know remembering me but not my last words a man before a fight to fill the heat but there's nothing to keep in mind there's nothing to remember really there's nothing to be just this moment and another then stare then it all becomes stable then the table let's go fuzzing and Friday's an unfamiliar face peeking in the window. Hey it's cool to panic for a second compulsion is wasted on your worst enemies people are marked on that sidewalk. You know only thing life size everybody knows this in a wire hanger empire when the blood stops walking that feeling isn't father enough to be permission to fold you better swing one more time. Shit that father yours rose from the grave and said just give me five more minutes he said running water is a myth. It's us who are running up down and all alongside this water. And people don't rise from the grave you know they not laid down neither it's us who flip all around a body so beware when the people around you look like they're about to jump. It might be your time. You'll feel the heat and when four walls demand to be four walls in the earth outside music don't panic. No don't try to recreate the earth outside don't tell jokes to yourself don't even talk disrespectfully to the four walls instead unclench your fists and walk away. There might be heaven if you understand the nature of the world then. One of these days I'm really be able to talk in between the poems man you know. It's just too hard to transition you know it's like trying to talk from two different parts of your mind you know just don't work. From a two floor skyline in the banding house talk to me. It said young man you are heroic in 10 years old. Among 20 generations of friends friends were free for the way they're free for the wall. Free fall up to. With like fifth grade speed to industrial paint you know young man I want you to use quick knife tones be boning brass be last laugh music you always leave. Always want to change the clothes from the door life and escape a two floor skyline said you're the guy that dies in the middle. The friend more blues and skin to face the cheap hotels get to finish in place with 90 mile per hour right eyes among dry heat killers once children three feet high and roaming and repeating and aiming at cotton mirrors that hang on breathing walls you were 10 years old tagging along yawning and well lived violence with some of the two shop songs you will be useful and you will be hiding alone flying on a nephew dragging from a $20 family in the sky to cause itself just more soil around walls of the just walls except these walls. Suggest you make wives out of highs and currency here the air is polite to sleepy glass and bullion walls young man you will come to admit that sometimes suicide is power because some people live stronger as ghosts. And sometimes the afterlife empties billions of souls into objects like playground bullets. And abandoned door frames even broken glass will prove it has voice to you know they're 24 hours behind your back look over your shoulder right now can you hear the sound of drums punching themselves out the sound of piano parts learning between assassination attempts be boning brass be boning up for two souls be invincible again suffer red-eyed accents professional fingertips gifted victims six in the morning beer the first month of probation to shout at the wall see these words it shouldn't be home look behind you again be invincible again be women would be a sad machete be her son be a thief still his back laugh too long and never look away. The afterlife will empty and walk you home if you reverse the car any farther you will run over all the scenes in the back of your mind. I never cared for teachers just the patterns of their fainting spills. Fainting spells induced by wall art all that to say propaganda is courage. The price sticker hides my tattoo. I treasure my problem with the world. My mother becomes from Brooklyn first thing in the morning that's a proper proverb around these parts proverb of a peasant entrance password writing short notes of famous Europeans on the back of postcards with ransom request. They reply with a newsreel or a cigarette announcement I can't tell the difference noble dollars then you die inside but on the inside they call it. They call it sleeping deep in your stalker and stalkers all that bad makes you says a great spirit dressed in the bloody rags tuxedos became meanwhile my punches feared by no one proud of yourself. I ask my fret hand porch lights is what they call our guns. I've seen this house in a dream and I believe a trumpet was the first possessed object of flight. Keep going she cheers the draft in the room becomes a toddler a toddler obsessed with an alter the alter becomes a runaway train. I mean I got a thousand paintings like these cascading down my skinny arms. The dictionary is piled up to the window bars are reminded to the population that your blanket can work with or against you. Human reef I mean we'll be a big human reef for concepts that finally gained a metaphysical nature and they will swim around our beautiful poses. We stop being flashbacks then stop being three different people and then I was alone the pistol one city away. One of the drug triangles lines runs through my head I tap the bottle twice and consider the dead refresh they don't you want to rest your bravery. They don't you want to be a coward for a little bit back and forth to a panic attack with no problems nor fears a man gets a facial expression finally a Friday. Finally goes his way his life is finally talked about happily and it said I mean I can't possess the body of a hermit I must be the last of the smoke. Now running the other way with three blocks of Ali tucked under my arms. You ever see a man get to the bottom of his soul in a car ride down a missing cousin street and half step to the right. I mean I took the whole car outside of history half step to the right. I mean a whole pack of wolves stepped to my left. Road markers what I call the light bulb we have for a son a whole civilization might slink to the sink or a chain gang shuffling next to a sucker. Also known as the lone look in the mirror. A stack of money starts talking from four cities away man I'm off to make a church bell out of a bank window. She kitchens made more to the masses back in the day and before that we had no enemies. Somewhere in America the prison bus is running on time. You want to lose your job before a revolution here and somewhere I won't be home for breakfast. Everyone out here now knows my name and I won't be turned against for at least four months to copy the picket line is a hard working rookie. The sign in my hands is getting more and more laughs as the picket line got cops in it. I got to take care of those windows for if you want but someone else got to go inside your gas tank. It was clear to the man that rich people would talk too much this year. I want you to go ahead and throw down that marble park bench everyone's looking up at you know get the Romans out of your mind. It may be good night sleep but it changed the last 20 years of my life playing the instruments like punching the wall. What would you have me do replace the population give brotherhood back to the winter stop smoking cigarettes with the barely dead. You know they listen in on the Sabbath police called the police on me. There was a white candlestick beneath my detention. I ruined the soup again thought the judge as he took off his pilgrim robe behind the white people's door and more. I didn't get lucky I got what was coming to me. He tells they fight me back. The man said of course to himself washing windows with a wheel to live. Ten can on his left shoulder and joined a bright brand new blight with all party goers both supernatural and supernaturally down to earth. What is this elevator traveling side to side like 1000 bit of Polaroid pictures that you actually try to eat all the furniture on this street nail to the cement. No cheap furniture but we have commitment. This morning an essay opens the conversation between enemies why because you control every grain of processed sugar between here and the poor man's border. Because in the tin can on my left shoulder I can hear the engines of the industrialization man you should get in the painting you know tell lies more deeply. Hey this month I'm rooting for the trader carting cement to my pillow here we will build I mean I'm high again. Not talking much and once you climb up the organ pipe to our apartment floor I'm high again. Calling everything church singing along to a courtyard thanks to a horn players holy pastime. I mean I'm just really just putting a real jacket on it you know talking about a real five years. Keep memories like these in the pocket next to the toilet seat. That man lost the wager with the God of good causes I mean stood up for himself a little too late. Shit maybe too early. I can still see 20 angles of his jaw zigzagging through the cold world of the industrialization man there is an art to it. I will tell my closest friends one day put another way. Now real real quick man in conclusion. Capitalist dropped 10 tons of barbed wire on my Tuesday shift. We shot back at their chimpanzee pilot for the sport. The contractor has already smoked three cigars only one hour into my court appearance shift supervisor likes to smell says it reminds him of when he ran the streets and all I remember is we shot back. Gated puppet dances alone bars and jigs as I'm the happy one of Legion meanwhile kids commit childhood behind his wooden plaster joints you know wire Dodgers under this silly puppet silly puppet dancing for white heaven. Like weapon is a jacket and precinct holds Friday hostage we go through a fossil jar and see a judge the tunnel at the end of the life. I sleep until woke by dry cereal and surrender this holding sale only needs a giant panhandlers palm to shake us coin men around. I'm breaking my sister breaking my fingers for my sister's bill collectors garage casket open I mean all third world parallels kill openly breaking my lungs for my sister's rent. I am the sculptor of construction dust I miss cigarettes by mid morning I miss Hennessy by sundown I miss murder by inches $5 bills cherish my days outside always behind there's no concentration in this courtroom. Just a bunch of B plus students living out they nightmares and how do I plead with a straight face to blocks up as a rear current cliff along with slavers paraphernalia along with ordinary panhandling along with ethnic parade history along with ethnic parade along with 13th greatest bill. Let's talk about the fact that four dead children later I still don't have a problem beating you up in front everybody. Let's talk about the fact that money is death. Down to my last five bucks is what I call this shoe. 10 o'clock political education is what I call this dream. I got the job is what I call this blues two days later is what I call a clip. Hey, capitalists eat until the world is blurry to them. These streets is made of saliva. Some people have made a saliva too they usually got on uniforms. While the crazy man spins round and round trying to make a record out of this mass production jungle maybe I'll join him, count cash and cry. These streets is made of saliva and white sheets are worn by a building in which kids are supposed to learn how to read well. And white sheets on the highway too. Another mirror needs their head on the pike. One down is just one down but if you tell all this to the masses your teacher will pipeline you. They told me I was jewelry. They told me this is jungle. Well maybe not jungle, more like 50 machine guns planted in the ground. It's raining faces again in California. What does this say about heaven? What does this say about the people you killed? Waiting lines got so exhausted a million miles dropped all these faces at once. If the fastest can read the lips of a giant talking in his sleep man we might as well make art demands in prison letters. Today was born the most important trigger finger in the world. Today I begun counting down the days between now and the pile of books by a tunnel. Chicago is going to walk out of Chicago one day. Babies that drag street signs like old toys. Today the most important letter left prison. Babies laughing flags like faces that have disappeared. Maybe I'll join them. But for now these streets are made of saliva and we raise half full glasses to the basements that meant nothing. And the working poor who live there. We get shot. We get white sheets on California where the kitchen table likes to talk as much as the walls. Romance on the porch consists of hard residing. I mean in this picture characters talk spit and know that they are hard to kill. The kitchen table knows this. The porch is almost convinced that one down is just one down. You know this town is coming to town. A circus watching itself. Half distracted. Half suicidal. Thrill children. Dressed as cops. Thrill children preaching and policing and intaking and hiring and snatching your money. This town has come to town with tough trademarks to follow today. I watch capitalism walk on water. And people play dead. So they could be part of a miracle. God by teeth goes this country. There is a cow's mouth on the flag. A peculiar notepad whole street life deer but the writer's not here. He's somewhere talking to tombstones about the good old days. Or splashing reborn water on his latest face. Or wondering how his old gun is doing in the afterlife. You know wondering how much death trap is in those gas station hours. It got to be a million dollars a day on this concrete island. New engine in the moon why it never goes down. I mean 72 straight hours of night at least according to everyone's posture around here. 8.30 in the morning is really 30 minutes to closing. Shots down for a sleepy rat race. Elevator shoe shuffle to the nearest heaven. Laughing with rats the whole way up. There are scabs everywhere. And puddles of city and concentrated schools and TV lit warm rooms. You know the light reveals military fatigue when it hits just right on the ties that are wrapped around the necks of lazy white guys. A empire is too easy baby. Channing at the walls or something if you feel like it. The best way for a target to move is shooting back. You know running for a treeline made of freeways. Wisdom says against a war machine on Tuesday you stand no chance. But may we be the last poor men to play it safe. Cows mouth on the flag. The politician raises his hand and the crowd shows their teeth. An oligarch raises his hand and little girls are not safe outside. You are all high depressed and comrades in function. In 15 minutes the closing in the city has survived another black rebellion. We just paying dues by trash fires not just anybody can set. Hey don't you love how deadly things whisper in the moment and people kill like feathers fall when everybody screaming inside. The writer knows that death is not a matter of dignity rather humor. In a house it smells like road races. There are percentages on tourist stalls. I mean here life never was. It's just lazy matches and manic inhumanity hands rushing away from life towards stalls. Man what are we doing here? Surviving for no reason in particular. Because nobody gone far today. Nobody will go far tomorrow. Trust me hell in heaven cannot count. Strange gardens with second hand clothes play. And concrete wishes to be human so that it could be accountable. When they find you drenched and drains wish to be human so that they could be worthy arms for you to die in. You know prepare for the day when every child is calm and don't say we ghost didn't write you a poem. They don't say we didn't dig your life. Remember the shotgun by the co-wrack that everybody in the house knows how to use. Remember the tight rope made of needles for walking in between driveways and man made best friends. Go ahead grandson. Tune this street again. Never mind this country kills musicians first. Broken neck nights, scarred neck life. If these walls could write lyrics they say what's your angle Angel Eyes. 30 to 50 rounds passed by on a street with no daughters. This street has no sons. This young prisoners of war in a racist city that means to make capital. And we know so much. We know it all. We were stood against walls. Who's on the third cross around here? Cow's mouth salivating over the street. And that is the story of why we aim at tea.