There is this young man in Canada. I think he is in Canada anyway. He has written some books and is a damn fine musician and has a daughter and an ex-wife and dreams of chaos in the streets where children dance in front of police lines and politicians puke in the toilets. Victims didn’t need tickets, I told him one night, and then I said that our only hope was incest. Most of our wounds would heal and that maybe it was better if we cowered like animals at the back of the Tastee Freez. You know, I said, we are lost empire along the streets somewhere down there where the hip learn to speed-read the ice and everything like that is kind of easy since today’s eyes are on default. Well, I guess he was following all of this like the Gettysburg Address and we were exhuming the bodies of the dead and there was this girl beside him rolling over the shadows. Anyway, I told him we were always missing the lights, caught in the cross walk, there between 2nd and Honesty and the dancing pyramid of a traffic cop. Yeah, it all cut too deep. Like my so-called friends who lived out of my mouth, the ones surrounded by ex-trophy wives with small dogs, the kind with thin, expensive skin, tripping on our day here on the corner of 2nd and Honesty. The damn clocks moved in disarray, but we didn’t care to polish the chrome twisted in the pileup on top of a different girl. Her shadow was a prison going away to where I could not see. Cast by the sun from the door, blinding me as I placed my hands on the wheel and life came in little pieces like sweeping up glass scattered across the floor. I bled the color of neon, but not the stars, and I knew the heat as I floated upward. I feared the young lions and the fault in my heart, where the city grew around me without a plea to bargain, in the shadow of her prison, abhorring what I needed to be: just a little bit more of 2nd and Honesty. Then I got this email and he said, you know this could be a song, and I said, well sure, go ahead and do your best. Now I’m waiting to hear the melody and the chorus like Sophocles writing about Antigone in a long, dark hall held up by marble columns that pretend to be dogs tearing at the flesh of a girl.