Black Market Mercurio (part 9… lets go)

OH perfect bloomed inconceivable land, branch that SunOil plant, shatter up the atmosphere as pipes and smoking stacks unleash the core of this planet just a-fuming—like my hearts gotta hitch of it like a santa sack and dragging the whole thing headfirst and reeling fullblast spearheading into the vanishing point that’s now burning this awful shit smell tubed through my liver into a bottom of my right side lung.. Headlong into journeys running wildly across the downtown overpasses with peeled untouchable glances skipped agelessly across the illustrious, almost make-believe, intricacies river-dipped in murky reflections and overgrowth of weeds splitting cracks in the ridges and places with semi-expectations of the Legion fully as the fresh froth of cottonwood stirred over the decadent brown inner-city oozings which further drained pipes and such pondering of how I could capture the feeling-thought speeding over the river bridge into the wasted Southend; or from the South back to the East; the exits, and the immediate quick off-ramp, the curves swung bending so vast in the mind and swung off the water’s edges and over-swung instantly turned into the hard core bend around….

Beneath daydreaming at the whole way, back to those 10,000 trips back and forth across, that glanced choppy river agelessly disassembling concrete barriers, cubes across the waterfront near a tiny court in the dirty-dirty, where a couple chumps shooting terrible jumpshots with a rubber ball made Dulante tell me every time when we rise and slipped by, whether anyone was ballin or not, “they scum. It would not be worth it…” and we take the old swift route quicker weaving say onward in along the pavement intertwisted and interconnected with long grasses and weeds amidst the filthily fabricated flophouses in some fantastic ruins hallowed by perhaps holograms perpetually crowding the slabs….full blown beginning, fresh summer in full bloom, weeds splitting the …..

Joo-lie, June, hell May, even cool cool April and frosty March….Brentwood, Cullen Park, White, ..Trilby.. mmmm one prevalent court after another we ran with shirtless homely boys and slower geeks with glasses, and generic heavy types shooting from their chests and every one of them come wrangling with younger siblings or lazy friends like molasses in a descriptive dawdling slowly from a multitude of fencelines, from the tremendous rampart out-aways where an empty field evenly dispersed, or from the alleys, from the backs of homes to the vanishing points of gnarled flat horizon; Waite high school (which everyone just called Starr); they sauntered through gapes and creaks of gates and like the weeds uneven pavements; naturally, from side hoods and roads, homes aligned in what great sorrows with a disbelief inevitably thump, and bruised, toothed roofs and the sort (and usually Dulante) echoed with the thump –thump-thuimp from some excellently tow-handed no-look unravel of an arm rolling the rock off bringing upon individuals, attempting dazzle, from such elevated—so he implores—shoulder to dribble to those who translated, the wild elementary, or in the sort of channeled boundaries within small sounds, echoes banging off the high chain-link fences; and so far away, and so immense, the intensity of the ball hitting the court amidst the dappled slab amidst the carved court amongst the forest, Trilby centered in the park in the subdivision connecting projects, maybe apartment complexes or dilapidated story and a half sided enormous subcity underneath of the stretches alongside rushed distances, and speaking of the concrete and highway….; we kind of surfaced, we ensued, anywhere, we ran, we drop the ball on an empty court and from the long stares over come – heartbeats elevated, and they approached, the Legion, the humans, the ballers, the ridiculous gangs of athletic groups half-expecting to makeshift a highlight until the moon just tube; this virus and incessant rage of all ages, races, colors…


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