An empty plastic bag rolls across the street like tumble weed. High Noon is midnight around here. The blacks never got to enjoy the anarchy of the wild west (the only reason being that because they were in Chains), so I guess now they feel they got some catching up to do.

I hear the loud mutterings of a woman down the street. Shouting incoherently at no one. Who knows who or what she's talking about. But we're all being forced to listen. The ambiance of a war zone permeates through the fog. I sit on my porch and quietly smoke my cigarette. The washing machine keeps turning. And the train keeps winding by.

The crack dealers across the street have closed shop early tonight. And the neighbors have stopped throwing parties. This block used to seem quaint. Even with the bright red orange sign across the street declaring "A CURSE ON THOSE WHO TRAMPLE ON THE GOOD DEEDS OF OTHERS - (and in smaller hand writing) don't dump your garbage here!" with a skull and cross bones at the top, the neighborhood felt secure. A flower in a heap of garbage.

I go back inside. I get comfortable.I pour my last glass of wine. I sit quietly thinking about my life while reading Baudelaire's "le fleurs du mal". I'm comfortable. things are quiet. I'm tired and at peace.

2:oo AM

"pop..pop pop!" three gun shots. right outside my window.

A heavy sigh before I turn out the lights and try to go to bed.