Concrete sweat.
The city is a ribcage.
Static in the veins of the Five Boroughs.
Midnight heat pressing down like a boot.
The barking starts.
A hollow command from the throat of the dark.
Shadows growing teeth.
No sirens.
Just the hum of the asphalt.
The heavy breath of the .44.
A signature carved in the backseat of a dream.
Jagged ink.
Fever in the basement.
A prayer for the lost sent to the front page.
THE VOICES ****
Forty-four caliber gospel.
Preached to the lovers in the parked cars.
The city is shaking.
Pull the trigger.
The monster under the bed of the world.
Waiting for the moon to speak.
Waiting for the blood to be enough.
The concrete holds the echo.
A period at the end of a life.
No long pauses.
Just the snap of the air.
The flash.
Then the silence.
TOTAL.
*******
SILENCE.