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Holy Fuck, They're Shooting Into The Dark Night Using Muskets before/after Misty rain made me think of the old days, doing social work in detroit, finding homes on the bad, bad, bad side of town, where the computer can't even tell you where to go but only vaguely.� The road ended at the railroad tracks, and I always had the feeling that I was headed to the wrong side of 'em.� But wrongs side of what?� Going from shitty to shittier.� Absolute destitution.� Chickens in one yard.� The road degraded into nothing but the goat path it was probably laid on three hundred years ago. Going up to the door with a knock.� I got to like doing the family work in a way, knowing I was doing not much good, but having the day off of the pager and no one looking over my shoulder, peering into lives and being invited into homes I never would have seen otherwise. Homes smelling like wet dogs.� Especially the house on the other side of the tracks. I tried.� I tried.� I really did. But when a parents strategy to 'learn the boy some' is to kick the kid out of the home for 'jus' a few 'mount-a-days', well, then, a well placed shot with a two by four acrossed the back of the head would do as much good as I would, if not more. So many burned out houses, speaking of soul in the softly falling Detroit snow. The snow as it tries to cover and blanket with purity, and failing.� Old piles of brick and sad eyed empty windowed burned out homes straight from the 68' riots. Knowing there is holy hell wrong in every home I stop, spending my afternoons in graveyards. "I'm going to be at your house in twenty minutes...will you be there?� Where am I?� No place special, I assure you." Drop in the bucket, credit to the soul. �
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