the street artist’s 27-degree sulk in h restrela

the heat today’s a beast-i just checked and it’s 27 degrees, feels like 29.45, probably why that’s the kind of weather where even pigeons bail after noon. i’m sitting on a curb in front of estrella’s murals, spray cans melting in my backpack, wondering if anyone’s stupid enough to work outdoors like this. the neighbors? the old couple next door keeps yelling at stray dogs while their microwave hums like a broken lullaby. i heard the bartender at the corner pub once told me there’s a hidden wall downtown you can only find by following a broken sidewalk and a trail of melted bubblegum. someone else said the bridge at dusk looks like a thief’s sketchbook. i’m not even mad about the heat-it’s just tonight, when the humidity’s steamed out the windows and the streetlights hum like bad memories, when estrella’s best keeps make sense.

reads: Ronde cracked me up

,

i swear, that’s what i said about the soup place. but this? this’s the kind of messy that makes life worth painting.

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