It's the fall of 2005. 

Sunny days linger like piss stains on Stanfield Underwear.  Fog and rain inch inwards, onwards, toward the lagoon of Vancouver consciousness.  Friendly squares and round holes sit in StarFucks drinking squeezed nigger juice in friendly disposable containers.

We all bide our time.

The trains run, clanking, complaining, squealing, down at the yards.  Men dressed in two-by-fours lumber along the tracks walking like cowboys, gazing sideways like saints.

It's a day like any other, a parade of sequined souls in leather dresses.  We continue where God left off ...

This could be a long install.  Today's pickins are slim as in "anorexic". If you're nervous when you read poetry, I'd go home NOW.

Okay, here's a guy about as bored as I am on October's Wednesday, "and then I said to the Transvestite Goat, blah, blah, blah."  This should actually go in our "bad trains" section, because this is not funny at all.

This is somebody who took Drafting 101 to get their letters upright, but missed Humor 102 due to croakin' and tokin' in the men's facilities.

Humor and the "subtle" art of wise-cracks on the sidewalk are best left to crews who have the art down right.

I'm thinking this person, if female might consider silicon implants to fulfill the Zena Warrior stance.  That can lead to some humorous and passionate experiences in life.  If you're a boy, watch some old reruns of "The Kids In The Hall".

Next, a fairly "testy" little piece, probably "test" or "dest" if my glasses are on squarely.  Umm... we can't say too much more - we wish we could.

You know, some of these tags just don't inspire much thought or reflection.  LaBrona, where the !@#@$ are you when we need to impart depth and substance to the art of train murals?

I seriously feel that Labrona and Theory should start a TRAIN ART school, mebbe somewhere near Emily Kar Kar on Vancouver's prestigious Granville Island peninsula, where you can chew on Organic Carrots as you quaff your Green Snot Macchu Picchu tea made with a little whisk broom.

It's all in how you cut the cards baby, as to whether you "count" in the Yuppified Scheme Of Things.  If in doubt, ask Mama Montessori where SHE sent her kids to play.

This above little collage had some ladders and metal in the way but they add that poetic zipzap to the whole potato.  "Reser", I think, signed also by ETC and DSTX.  Should've taken that Klingon 12 course in senior high.  Damn!

Here's another drunk with a spray-can that deserves to be on America's Funniest Home Graffiti Pieces.  "Look what my border collie can do with a can of Krylon in his mouth".  Okay, Gomer, this doesn't mean dick.

I mean, it's too wayward to be "Picasso-Like", it's too random to be "coherent", it's too messy to be "professional crew data".  So we'll mozy on down the line and pretend that Winter's not shaking her breasts at our thatched hut.

Yeah, this one ain't too much better. Kinda like snot on a disposable hanky. Grim crop, no cash.

Next ... after "Reser's" comparatively"alive" looking tag above, here's one that I also can't pronounce that looks like "Nohrit".  This could be Islamic for "blown-up temple" or something like that.  Oops better watch it.  This is an Islamic Book Store - there is no humor section here.

Bad cop no doughnut.  Bad artist, no popup on SEZ1.  Normally, I have at least one pop-up panoramic window per page of flicks, but this day is doomed to be a loser.

This sardine-jar on the right cramps my testicles like a banana seat on a bicycle.  If I flip it upside down, it looks like "manna" or "hammer".  This could mean several things.  It could mean that God is REALLY mad at us.  It could mean that those hungry guys in the desert are going to get hammered before dinner.

It could be an Islamic codified message about something inedible and metallic falling from the blue skies soon, care of George Bush and his cigar-smoking Texas Rangers. 

We all know these things inherently, and we are trying to change to Herbal Teas to appease the Deities.

Please try another track.  This one's on Strike!