A few hours of my life

The deranged midnight stalker says it
Garcia Lorca says it
The hit man, Walt Whitman
And the haliototic talker says

Babe, I'm on fire
Babe? I'm on fire"
~Nick Cave
Babe I'm On Fire

Couldn't go home yesterday. Not right away. Bad restless. Anger wires stripped and twisted in weird knots down the neck. Blood horny. I jail break early from the money zoo and hit the Southbound to Five Points, there I sit with the ghost men of Barbara Ashton Square, I listen to bootlegged Usher off a kiosk that sells burnt CDs, sick-sweet incense oils, black silk banners of Bob Marley, Bruce Lee and Dragon Ball Z characters that flutter dance in a light wind. Ghetto Saints of the Herb, the Fist and the Anime Chakra Rage. Pigeons hop around me, searching for crumbs along the concrete bed of the destitution garden. No one is screaming about Jesus today, and the sun comes down hard with omens of a vicious Summer to come. I get up and walk into the Wachovia that's hidden in a nondescript office building. A different world. Air conditioned corridors and security desks. Cameras swivel down the length of the hall and breathing mannequins stage whisper on their cellphones, for a moment you could almost forget that the Open Market of the Apocalypse is right outside those automated doors. I pull out a few $20's for walking around money out of the machine and decide to head East to Little 5.( Walk with me a bit )