There are no ghosts screaming from the memory hole,
No black glass towers shuffling money on the hill
Or the smell of weed and urine along the string of bare hotels.
There is no man on a walker asking me if there's anything's wrong,
No wheelchair panhandlers
Or bums for hire with dog.
There is no man on a walker asking me if there's anything's wrong,
No wheelchair panhandlers
Or bums for hire with dog.
There are no cops on segues bantering Batman-clad ladies,
No luxury excavations beside the shopping cart clan
Or jewelry stores where Navajo security guards stand.
No luxury excavations beside the shopping cart clan
Or jewelry stores where Navajo security guards stand.
There are no "free smells" of coffee,
No Hollywood wannabes still red-haired and half-naked
Or John Fante Square.
There is only a feeling that won't go away
When I looked in that one man's eyes.
Or John Fante Square.
There is only a feeling that won't go away
When I looked in that one man's eyes.
