Hood for Thought

When I was in Ohio
I had a thing for The National, Swans,
Fiber Reinforced Concrete and Colt-45
my lab was literally a shithole. It reeked of
resins, fibers, acetone and a whole lot of nothingness
the only way to pass the day safely,
was to break concrete-cylinders and count fibers.
 
My apartment was in the middle of the hood 
surrounded by few hard-working American families,
but mostly by junkies, drug-dealers,
pimps and the college kids. There was a retired sniper
who was never tired of boasting
how many infiltrators he killed at Iraq-Syria boarder
and another kid of German-descent
who claimed how his apartment
was always loaded with semi-automatics
and there were neighbors who used to bring me
 a case of Carlsberg on some odd days.
 
My neighborhood used to smell like Humanity,

the cocktailed air of violence, conformism and drugs.