He wears the grit of his life on the surface. His brow has become a private, yet very exposed cityscape. Two eyes set on fire, embers of smoldering cigarettes casting smoke signals into the night. Streetlights reflect his thoughts and his whiskey breath is punctuated by wine stained lips. His mouth, a gated community to rows of houses, when opened you see the pull of tiny teeth gnaw on its plumpness. Below you see the ridge of his chin, an upside down mountain. Shoulders sturdy, his veins pulse through his two arms like telephone wires begging you to call. The trunk of his body, home to his core and I suppose an inner mayor self indulges in the dance of his heart beat. If you listen closely you can hear the car horns beep. His legs support a current that drips into his feet and carries him throughout the world.
A city inside a man, a man inside a city. Feel the hum of their electricity.