The pigeons flock to a mass of power lines strung and intertwined above the intersection. Old men in wheelchairs dance with their hands to the twang and reverb of a street musician’s guitar. People get thrown off of buses, adjust their pants, and stumble on. Somebody tells me to love everything. It makes me debilitatingly depressed. I want to shoot everything. Camera set on stun. Eyes gone bowling for the remainder of the afternoon’s lurch and plunk. A sensationalist of instincts, better or worse, for razing the past’s efforts to make stillness out of boredom. Nothing’s mutual. My name’s just mustard graffiti on cellophane plates. Cathedral bells toll Amazing Grace, but there ain’t a thing so amazing as that legless beggar’s crust-caked eyes caught between a bug and oblivion. Tents like lean-tos in a shantytown line the streets as far the curvature of the earth will allow sight to trespass. People are sleeping here. Wandering’s legs have grown old beneath the streetlights. No more chases to burn after. No more ideals to swamp through. The prismatic beauty of gutter-water faces shivers more spines than the wind’s bite should allow, and we’re through here, for once, in the copper-laced glaze and luminescent rinds: the forlorn offerings of another garden-variety crestfallen angel. Shout. Shadow. Pepper the night with laugh-choked shrieks. Crank it up. You know why? Because I really don’t care what people are going to say about me after I die. I’d rather they say those things while I’m still around to kick. Wonder’s shucked and rotted. The pit’s craving the stomach’s comfort. I buy ruins and sell lobotomized awe. But I’m just a no-good junkie with a broken heart. And some of us can only live in bottles. I can’t be reached at (646) 851–0347, but go on ahead and try anyway. Because, well, you never know, now do you?

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