Saturday, February 04, 2012


First I notice the scar. A pink swash underlining his left eye, loud, shouting up the block. Louder than blowing garbage, louder than piss, louder than shriveled junkies, mice running nervously, louder than the night. He stumbles up to me in a cloud of backstory: grape wrappers, dark whisky, skunky ganja. Syrup- and herb-blurred eyes. Spare and random white drizzle on the back of his hoodie. He comes in for the love, begins a quiet litany. I'm thinking fast money hustle or "Oh, hey, Dog, you got a smoke? How 'bout a light?" but he's gonna linger a little longer. Impossible-to-hear words dribble onto the sidewalk, he weaves in and out, riding waves of inebriation. Gives me a free CD and explains with a hug that it's he and his brother on the cover, doing each track. He's doing a slowed-down dance, pinballing between the parked car, the posts for the tree, the wrought iron gate, and his own two feet. He talks shit, he yells, and he tells an ongoing story only he can know, only he can flow.

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