April 3, 2005 – 135 commin’ through Phily. It’s a harsh color of life this Phily offers. It’s not the pink swimingo of youth or the sweet lemonade stands where thirst is killed off with a dime or a quarter. There’s beer here in these dark runoff rivers left over from the deluge of the Pope’s death. There’s whiskey and sadness and loneliness and hate pent up in the mortar of the bricks that make this city of Brotherly Love. This home to Franklin lost on hookers and junkies, raped at the edge of sanity by the shrill scream of crime fighters, like prize fighters going down in the 4th, after everything is said and done they’ve got the blood running out of their lips and streaming down from the cut above their eye where they were hit with a domestic violence call and the 3 kids found were dead in the hall way with 3 gunshots to the head each. That means he had to reload and think about the bitch that was screaming in the bedroom waiting for him to just drop dead like she’d dreamed about so many nights he’d stayed at the foundry makin’ the steel this whole god damn nation slept on, drove on, fucked on and died on. And they lost. Brother Love, where you at?
screaming at low volumes
