This City Of Faces

Something so unsettling about standing on the L and seeing so much flash with so much dirt under the surface. Look real close at Jerry Stockbrokers fingernails and you might find catholic heaven (if your name is Junior and you’re 15), or hell if you’re his wife. Pedro wants his place in line back and pretends he can’t understand a word you say. Until you tell him how bad his breathe stinks and then he wants you to make love to six inches of shiny steel.

Languages babble like a tin can stuck on the heel of your work boot. The ones you wore around the world…twice. Old friends who never let you down, they'll always be there at daybreak. Even if they reek of old fish and something less savory, you can put them in another room. But the voices of the people around you… all white noise. And they leave the stink of unwashed masses that remind you of rotting onions and the gangrene your grandma-ma had in her big toe.

Ah the city… Like an old girlfriend who still carries your class ring, she never forgot you. She’ll spread her pock marked thighs and breathe that cloudy cigarette smoke right in your face. She’ll make love to you with a torrid desperation born of your own insipid need to feel something, anything. Your city. My city.

The rage that built the Sound

I'm hearing my past dry up and blow away like it's 83', 84', 85', 86' 87' 88' and my Docs are creaking at the door...

Somebody get me to The Off Ramp now!

Shit that never worked then, and now it's gone.

But we still always found a way there.

Of course it's always been about the rage that builds the Sound that brings the release, hasn't it?

Andy, Layne, Mia, Chris

Is that Seattle rain I smell in the Air?

I'll never forget you Chris...

STH~