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About Dallas

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

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I stroll often around Veterans Park—the little green gem down by River Road. The river’s a little twisty snake—maybe Miller's Creek?—and it winds right through town. Sometimes I sit there meditatively, watching ducks and drifting clouds. In these moments, I feel alive, like in those wild scenes from Spring Breakers, yo; "All I wanna do is dance with the demons, baby!" kinda vibe, ya feel me?

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