Second Shift Saturday Night

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We are rain to old wind to record player to wounds. Kim Gordon

booming the bass on your headphones. Turn up the blue dial

or the kettle, spoon. Take off your hairnet after your shift, loading

the machines at the plastic plant. Everyone has eaten their Twinkies.

Light up a Menthol outside in the rain. We are out of bounds. We are

off to the pool hall, the bar, to The Man, to the dealer, we are rolling

    and pimping, we are smoking, we are popping, and basing,

     grabbing our gamble. We are oxidized,

weightless, and wasted, we are rumble, we are starting to rise, we are

the guts of this fucked up city, we are witnesses

to what we will raze—