Furnace
Ex-Bluelighter
I sat in my car, dented and scratched,
listening to Kilowatt hours sing about
how she was right.
I was parked, sitting across from that long stretch
of sidewalk that separated the low-income condos
and the middle class homes.
There's the house where that girl veronica used to live.
I remember when she told her best friend in the world
that she was moving away.
They cried and cried that last day of school.
Some guy just passed me in a mustang.
I recall the story of two brothers I once knew.
One was older and helped me in a fight when I was young.
The other one was my age and I fought with him, constantly.
I found out that their mother died in high school.
They ended up taking their mother's inheritance,
and driving their beat-up mustang to LA to buy
the best coke they could get their blonde haired
blue eyes on.
They got as far as Seattle.
As I pull away, I pass, finally, the house where
my best friend died when we were 17.
It was a house party gone horribly wrong, and by
the time the flames were put out, my friend
had died.
By that time, though, the neighborhood had already become
a sorry pit of despair, attracting young people
to many evils.
My gramma still lives here, but I never take the time
to look around at the environment in which I spent
so much time in.
I think I know why.
listening to Kilowatt hours sing about
how she was right.
I was parked, sitting across from that long stretch
of sidewalk that separated the low-income condos
and the middle class homes.
There's the house where that girl veronica used to live.
I remember when she told her best friend in the world
that she was moving away.
They cried and cried that last day of school.
Some guy just passed me in a mustang.
I recall the story of two brothers I once knew.
One was older and helped me in a fight when I was young.
The other one was my age and I fought with him, constantly.
I found out that their mother died in high school.
They ended up taking their mother's inheritance,
and driving their beat-up mustang to LA to buy
the best coke they could get their blonde haired
blue eyes on.
They got as far as Seattle.
As I pull away, I pass, finally, the house where
my best friend died when we were 17.
It was a house party gone horribly wrong, and by
the time the flames were put out, my friend
had died.
By that time, though, the neighborhood had already become
a sorry pit of despair, attracting young people
to many evils.
My gramma still lives here, but I never take the time
to look around at the environment in which I spent
so much time in.
I think I know why.
