Atlanta in July

What can you say about Atlanta in the summer that hasn’t been said about white phosphorus? It burns everything it touches and it never stops.

The Lily white business bois who forgot their socks but not the Brooks Brothers.

The Dirty South poor who rely on MARTA and each other.

The tourists who treat this like the last civilized restroom before heading on to the Orlando shit show.

The poor whites who didn’t notice the city growing above and beyond their potential.

The poor blacks who think this city on the hill actually cares about their needs and struggles.

The bums who enjoy the lack of snow.

The whores who enjoy the business bois’ dough.

There are pockets of this city that truly redeem, but they are growing fewer and farther between.

But the dives still exist. And that keeps the soul of this concrete disaster alive.

Sherman wasn’t wrong. Bring him back and he’d do it again…probably for free.

But the embers of that ancient fight made this monstrosity.

Do it again? What’s the spawn that comes the smoke?

Hopefully, I won’t be here to see that…but I’ll be back before it begins.

…but just for a long weekend.