The Promise of the Golden Streets

oh, if these city streets could talk, what stories they could tell of people trapped like lab rats in this twisted urban hell; of cigarettes and beer cans and of empty, broken dreams; of promises left unfulfilled, of failure and of hate; of shattered hope and golden lies we've managed to create; of drug deals that went bad, of families murdered in their sleep; of first kisses and big misses, and the one that got away, lost among the faceless throng, and crimes that always paid; and whores with softest silhouettes and eyes that burn like ice; of washed-up men and women at their garbage can buffets; and even when the sky is blue it bears a tinge of gray; of kids who take their parents' guns and rain each other down; of bribes and nameless tip-offs, so another buys the farm; convenience store arrests, and disconnected burglar alarms; four-digit codes and fingerprints, and roaches on the wall; and from the public ashtrays someone steals the half-burned butts; stories of backstabbing brothers, of moxy, balls, and guts; of flesh and bloody mirrors in the bathroom on the left; of week-old, inch-thick steaks from the all-nite diner kitchen; of money stolen from your wallet by that slutty bitch, and stilletto heels that cut cement like diamonds never could; of blind men with their tin cans, and their gimp dogs and their walks, who fight for territory, yeah, those two, three city blocks; of celebrities and suburbs that lie awake at night; of fearless men in trenchcoats where the orange lights never dim, holding up the lamppost, knowing nothing waits for him; he's just flipping his last quarter, waiting for the sun to come; of two-faced cops who lie, who say they're just here to protect; never there when you need 'em, but then, what else should I expect? I'd take a bow, and take my leave, but hell, this place is home. Written March 6th, 2002 © on Mar 06 2002 01:11 PM PST   20 • 0 • 9