So we can know these things are forgotten.

Last night I stood between two rusted train tracks, running parallel and opposite, overrun with syringes, weeds and other allergens that clawed up the tattooed walls of industry’s ex-lovers.

I found solidarity in decay, in black-spout giants smoking the day down to its charcoal filter, the box shadows of furniture factories on the skyline, the reminders of neglect, of how dreams are anachronisms spewing black smoke and the sick smell of varnish into gradient dusk.

I was feeling like HOWL, I could feel my own molten ashy Hell coursing through my veins.  I was feeling the  vaudevillian train-yard specters, lonely apparitions coasting through garbage and rubble, ruined on meth and crazy, dematerializing into city lights seconds after becoming unbearably real.

I walked downtown to meet Jon, reading a book to pass time in the Hasty Mart’s yellow light, glowing lewdly on the oil stained pavement, lacking smokes for myself and everyone who asked.  A coffee-coloured tart denounced her full goddess body, a dance with confusion and misguided sexuality to a dog’s bass-beats into the window of his car.  She licked her lips, climbed in, time passed, Jon never showed.