A section 8 daydream (vol.2)

                                          Section 8 housing aligns the sordid urban streets of Northern Philadelphia. Thunderous cloudbursts descend myriad raindrops that sprinkle along cemented city sidewalks. Diseased pigeons fester in assorted slum village territories. It is the subtle food stamp folly that promenades to dive bar jukeboxes. As a shepherd keeps his flock by night, the pedestrians hustle and flow down filthy sewer drainpipes. Rusty tetanus needles, glazed eyeballs and embalming fluid cigar tips. Stenciled out cloud formations, hyacinths weep to stale morning delights. Evening cemeteries thirst for a .40 oz. of Silver Thunder or two. Drowning in the bittersweet citrus of concentrated orange juice.
                                        Narrow remote doorways open out onto cracked wooden staircases, leading out to second floor landings of domesticated warehouses and counterfeit bodegas. Cut wrists and frail fingertips. These sultry maidens weep through afternoon slumbers and dedicated imprinted tombstones. Corner boys and pawnshop women. Out through darkened horizons a dusty mirage appears of Newport loosies and glass flowered crack-stems. Penitentiary early morning curtains rise to ink poisoning from jailhouse tattoos and hepatitis C awakenings. Gun shop clothing and hand-me-down polyester slacks.
                                        I'm feeling rather saucy mama, pour some of that sparkling soda water into my chilled hurricane, add in some of that delicatessen cranberry, have myself a ghetto poinsettia, got some cold water ice trays? throw in a splash of o.j.,  make it a thug street mimosa. No one plans to reside on these neighborhood blocks, they all start out with bad directions, headaches and heartburn. Papa needs a new pair of county shoes in prison, it's a shame he had to pull that damn trigger. He did what he had to do, we all knew he was drunk though. All along the blue printed terrain natives lie, rob, and burglarize imitation diamond chandeliers and gold rimmed hubcaps. Around here we don't watch the evening news, we live it, and we sure don't care to talk about it.
                                     They say that the Philadelphia Zoo subsides on the northern outskirts of the city, this being a rather broad statement, I'll say THEY are full of shit. Take the 'el down to K and A. Make a pit stop at Margaret-Orthodox or Somerset-Ontario, find out for yourself. Watch juvenile children lingering on corner intersections, elbows bleeding maroon pools of red death, protruding shards of broken glass penetrating fragile and vulnerable flesh patterned sinews. You sit on your comfortable velvet residential recliner, complaining, thinking you're a critic, a scholar, a politician. You are not. You want to make yourself noticeable? Go become a correctional officer at a Philadelphia county prison. You wouldn't last a day. Think your educated?, you want a taste of this shit? Blow me,  you middle class white right/left wing T.V. spectating Fuck. You want a whiff of the real life? Think going out drinking with the boys on a Saturday night is getting wild? You won't know what hit you, after the streets take you in and spit you out, six feet deep down into the fertile embedded soil of Northern Philadelphia..