Running Backwards Through the Market

A Marah Memoir/ Part 1.

Walking up South Ninth Street, snowflakes spinning/ swirling/ crashing quiet down upon a Sunday afternoon ground/ I took a deep drag on my cigarette and stared at the blown leaves and wrappers propping themselves up in a brick corner of a parking lot.

It occurred to me then, this useless notion that this big beautiful nasty-ass city was dirty dirty dir…