I keep thinking about Fletcher Street in Philadelphia, and those one hundred horses sandwhiched between ghetto and those kids with the melting faces and not their "I want" mentality, but their "I need" mentality, their childhood sticky fingers completely justified. And that unnerving thought process brings me way back when to my baby years, walking through North Philly with my friends in search of some house show (8pm! 3 bucks! Asshole Parade and TBA! Free Brews - which were long gone and empty bottlenecks by the time we got there) telling everyone that I was 100 percent sure I smelled horse, the odor of which is tattooed onto my senses, and they all said this is ghetto and not cowboy territory but now I know, and I toy with the notion of calling those boys to show them just how wrong they were. But the two whose numbers and friendships I still have would not in anyway remember that and why should they.
A secret lulling to the black cowboys of my dreams and the ones I saw on Vine a month ago, giving pony rides to white kids on the sidewalk and in weedy parking lots. And a ballad for those hungry carriage pulling horses of downtowns across the nation, having to shit in a bag and listen to the drone of traffic and feel hard and not soft underfoot. Oh Oh Oh, goosebumps and a tear for all you grass munching beasts.
A lesson for years to come: anything in an unusual pocket is beautiful.
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