Blistering in the Sun

The first outing was a punishing one. Armed with camera and woe I took to Filmore to document the forsaken objects along the boulevard. And it was quite the haul. The overall experience quite telling. Mostly of the extents I'll go to indulge in idle folly. I suppose I, too, was contributing to the waste and leaving common sense upon the heap.

Technical specs of Filmore Street: The nearby hum of powerlines soak you in residual radiation. Barb wire tinctures the steel fence that escorts you along the walk. The street is .64 miles and takes approximately fifteen minutes to convey one end to the other at a brisk pace.

A writhing phone book is the first cadaver of discardment I encounter. Pages brittle to the touch. The ink distant and inaudible under the garish sun.

It's April and before me is a forgotten Christmas tree. Once the centerpiece of a living room. Now laying prostrate and uncommemorated. I could almost hear it whimpering to a cruel and unforgiving deity.

A soft beauty is found in the shatters. Looming over the debris is a parking sign. With a look of distate on its face. Like a disapproving parent. I can hear a mixture of clattering glass and the pierce of tsk tsk tsk.

You'll find no shortage of orphaned tires in this locale. A startlingly uneven number, five. Treads worn. Tired and bald. Like a man on the wrong side of forty.

Peering over the fence I spied a pair of scuttling shoes trying to abscond. A cloud of lachrymose gathers within me. I know they won't get far.

It's a mafia hit. But instead of a corpse rolled up in this heavy, industrial carpet?

Hope.