The Sidewalk
Go the city of Detroit and watch the drive-bys of old raggedy cars, coming from the ancient, dilapidated homes that crumble under the bitter sun of stink of sewer streets hiding the grey-faced children, their graffiti art laced with delicate rhymes, expletives, a marvelous shrine to the ghosts of Rosedale Park taking a heavenly walk. Yesterday but not today is the best time to take a heavenly walk to avoid the rat-tat-tat of Cass Corridor's drive-bys where basketball masters fall under the ghetto shrines hiding behind the walls of boulder-high dilapidated homes, their side alleys covered with mini graffiti art, temporarily until the rain washes the chalk dust into the sewer streets. But beauty is immortal, where vagrant kings rule on the sewer streets. They push like mad on their heavenly walks, remembering their own days of learning graffiti art, practicing until they are old enough to drive-by their creations, displaying their work in front of the dilapidated homes. These prized little children make their own shrines once upon a time until the sewer streets begin hearing the demise of these dilapidated homes, unable to move, unable to take a heavenly walk along the blind edges of Belle Isle back to reality, to the drive-by of nature snobs, oblivious to the decaying graffiti art. It is easier to find an abandoned house than precious graffiti art downtown, where casino machines sing with stolen money, a shrine to slipping-down butterscotch dreams that you have to drive-by to see, to win, to lose, to forget. See dirty coats but no sewer streets to proclaim as golden territory, just hands waving, heavenly walks to the rich folks, Detroit celebrities gone to LA and their lonely homes. Sewer streets, dilapidated homes, a shrine to a flame-filled city, struck by decaying graffiti art. Movers and shakers masking blood sent from God in a heavenly walk to end this drive-by.
