Tatters and Tatooine

This seems to be the recurrent theme. Everything abandoned on Filmore Street has to be tilted over on its side. It's a strict requisite of residency here. Nothing may remain upright. To demonstrate supplication to circumstance.

Nothing broadcasts urban blight better than an empty spray can. Spent and resigned. Like a dead male praying mantis. With a cigarette dangling from its beak. Somewhere there's a wall good and content.

Pleather putrid in the sun. The surface blistering hot from the unending high Celsius. Its deceptively inviting. Be warned weary traveler: These cushions scold and upbraid. Like Old Sparky.

High in the sky dangle a pair of Chucks. Like a flag flying proud. Padding softly across the Pacoima horizon. Kicking up clouds and slaloming around flocks of birds. This is the closest to escape we'll see on Filmore. Strange fruit, indeed.

Dirt goes well with dapper. All dressed up but nowhere to go. Like a snake sloughing off and discarding its skin. Somewhere there's a man who has renounced and shed the stuffy office life. And is out whispering dark inveigles to his Eve.