LOSING IN FRONT OF YOUR HOMECROWD

Early this morning...Far above the Earth: “The Day Shift” goes to work. It made me sick to my stomach to feel those angels watching over me. I was on my cell, trying to find a car to take my ass to Jersey, where I could disappear into the graffiti adorned Palisades. I was sick of looking at myself from the outside. In one moment I was laid out neat and clean like a snapshot and in the next I was as mysterious as a black hole. Lately, I feel two distinct personalities in my head--as though someone ran a red-hot wire down my brain, severing certain important connections.

Take me down from the ridge where the summer ends, and watch the city spread out just like a jet's flame. I've got a secret for you, I cut your angel in two--I left her bleeding and soaked it with a dry sponge.

Run a carbon black test on my jaw, and you will find its all been said before.

I had the driver pull over on a winding suburban street that was utterly without distinction, an aluminum sided domicile depot--one of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of tree-lined wastelands in this country today. I took a snapshot of a 25 mph Speed Limit sign. It was white with the usual authoritative black lettering, and was affixed to a green metal post. Behind it was a wooden telephone pole and behind that was a hunched Cypress tree. I tried to capture the progression from the man-made to the natural. Nearby there was a fence threaded with shiny green vinyl that grabbed my attention. Little girls in jean shorts were riding scooters and talking to one another on walkie-talkies. "What the fuck? What the fuck?" they said when they saw me taking pictures. They wore outfits of meticulously matched off the shoulder blouses, jeans and Capri pants from Old Navy, Gap and Abercrombie and Finch. It was clear though, from the signals radiating off their pouting little asses and super-glossy hair that what they really wanted was Prada and Gucci. I ducked back into my ride as they ran over to report me to the naïve and blissfully spaced out thirty-something mother keeping watch on a porch. Folded arms, no history of pain upon her face. I think it’s safe to say she doesn't know anyone who died from a gun shot or drugs.

…don't bring that stuff to bed…you've got to fall with a clear head…

I wanted to take pictures, lots of instant pictures. Of everything and nothing…the morning was very clear.

A change of speed, a change of style. In the back seat I carefully unfolded the crisp copy of today’s news and read my review: “Everything’s still in the red, it’s a very violent mix. …wood, switchblade knives, and tangled cords—they’re tough, chic and fabulously prescient.”