Funereal City

City of unrest, unsolved murders, machinations at the top of glass boxes glimmering high in the sky like slung-shot diamonds, rough-edged hoods and finks with like-minded schemes, sewers full of warring basks of crocodiles, Dutch elms dying of eponymous disease as arborists turn in their shears and take up on skid row for rotgut reveries, canned tuna subsistence, and the boring kind of cirrhosis . . .

city of Nordic angles, fanboys of austerity, where every barbershop has talc powder with or without asbestos, and every step you take isn’t just a Police song but is a police data point, hunger artists flourish here and the meth comes from Mexico up the 29 corridor. It gets stepped on three times before the middle schoolers sling it to their teachers guardians and the powers that be. the mayor - fat bald and psoriasis flaky - has a sign above his desk that says - you guessed it - repent repent repent nigh is end times. He contemplates tax increment financing and runs the numbers each weekday afternoon as he stands looking out the window slurping potato soup from a can . . .

god this is awful. At least laugh at its awfulness.