We begin our descent into madness with humble benedictions to the Construction Industry. Without carpenters, we'd have no walls to flaunt our glorious art decay.  We'd have no half-made caves in the night to hide our indescretions in.  We'd have no curious pits to stare vacantly into - watching big trucks play in pissing rain.

Construction Camps are where Boys Become Men, Where dinosaurs become dogs, where Drinkers become Bud-dies, and where curious anchors are cast into the troubled waters of Manhood.

What a great place to play!

It's more than just "poetry", it's a way of life. "Over my unloaded gun will you not make my feet purr again..."  We will take time to think this over, to place it between our toes, to blend it with Tofu and Wasabi in our gourmet place of Inner Happenings.

But again, this is Life In The Inner City.  It makes no sense unless you live it and breathe it. Even then it makes no sense.

Now is the Time.  For Faces.  Once More. Faces are - I will state this unequivocally - the most interesting vestiges of art that you can find lurking in the tattered world of the Graffiti-Land.  Although most Graffiti is composed of tags, tags, and more tags, Faces show all. Faces Become all.  Faces betray all, conceal all, demean all, uplift all and reveal all.  Faces are the jewels in the litter bag.

A mixture of resignation, sadness and shame are the soft and un-uttered colors of this little landscape above.  Although the eyes are human, the pain is way off the end of the scale.  Lives are lost and flushed down the drain too easily here.  Anger above, sadness below.  The wise man holds no blame and takes no prisoners.

Faces and sayings.  There ain't no way out of these alleyways.  The most common way out is the Final Ride. "It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees..."

Most people in these regions not only live on their knees, but they die on their knees.  Whether they die on feet, knees or elbows, they are just another toe-tag in the cold chrome of the City Morgue.  Although the sayings are altruistic and generous, the hands that write them are shaking and painful.

It's a Study.

Most of Life is just that.

It's the Troubled Boy With The Baseball Cap once again. The walls are red, his disposition is Pink. Eyes blinded by money and the superficial whims of the moment.

Nobody's in Jail, but everybody's in Trouble.  Heat is everywhere, Nights are long.   Meaning is temporary, arbitrary and skimpy.

Black Angus contains hidden gold.  The lines on his forehead are from Thinking and Drinking, but not necessarily in that order.

There's something vaguely healing, soothing and personal about this little piece. A journey into the Silicone of the Inner Night, a digging for one's Power Animal.

I prayed at the Altar. But no one let me in.
I called out to each and every God,
My breath was wearing Thin.

Oh Great Saint Peter, who guards the golden Arch:
What is the Key to Paradise?
Where is the Beauty we Aim for and Miss?

Where oh where is the Great Abandoned Kiss?

The Kiss of Self, the Kiss of Soul, The Kiss of Love, The Journey to the Whole?.