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Give it a good, long, hard look and you will see: nothing becomes me quite like nothing does. I am—motherfucker—the Howling Wolf of Escanaba, Michigan, you might say. I am the last living man who really remembers what it means to be Northtown. I am the soul and the splendor—motherfucker—of all that is thrown in your face whenever you make it over to my side of town.
And speaking of faces, I've been growing into mine for a long, long time. But it's all inflated and pushed up to the edges now. Really, so what's left to say?
Northtown exhales fire from its terminal blocks at the cars that stray too close. Northtown lets cops visit, but only for short—and we never let them descend into the interior alleys and nuclear blocks where the real work of living goes on. Be mine. Be my little baby. Go buy me some mothballs and score me some pills from the drugstore up the street. The one where they still don’t check ID. And when you come back? Then we'll
talk.
Then we'll talk.
Take it outside, and take that one—that little one, the drape chewer there—take the little one with.
My baby, she says, "Lord, love my baby with the cauliflower ear." She says it.
Anymore, there's nothing else to say. So take a good, hard look. Look at what's grown.
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