decided to browse this place at work and stumbled across a new piece by dylan, dated a few months previous. this is one of my more recent pieces and there's an image within it that i'll always remember, as said by vintage x metal to someone...something about hoping his winter is okay and his women will have their fingers poking through the ends of their sweaters...it was so long ago that i read it but it's always stayed with me, and i figured i'd share the entire thing here.

the new mobile homes shine beneath the dated lamps
amber glow a fade and gianni’s sign still flickers sometimes
i clench my jaw involuntarily with each journey through carteret
i break the speed limit in rahway to avoid the refinery
the metal barrier still folded and bent from where we slammed it
with bats and bikes and rocks and paintballs
strawberrying my side as i slide and fall in the street
i think of c4 and how the windows don’t properly click
one hoist away from a robbery or a dinner
or one breath of liverspotted impending death
they have dug deep these spurs
dusty jewelry box in its grave
doors on roller tracks with no locks
where to go besides back home
the dmv is empty and the prison is full
new shops and restaurants dot roosevelt avenue
and out of the corner of my eye i can see every deal
every bag of heroin and every underage alcoholic
in sight of linden i think of this girl whose glances of affection
could melt me like dairy queen to go
she shows subtle skin with no socks and her fingers
poke through the ends of her sweater as she strangles a smoke
i don’t carry a lighter and when she stirs her drink with her straw
her unpainted nails are bitten down and not clawed
what damage could she do to me
that i would not embrace as proper punishment
how tight would her noose be and how ill fashioned
somewhere as i am writing she is writhing
heavily perfumed in ash and craving safety
daydreaming or nightdreaming about sightseeing
about pushing past eighty on residential roads
the fantasy interrupted by the rushing sensation
of being lonely
all of it is always lonely and somehow
bleak and cold and brown eyed and aching
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn

Glad you're back, friend. I'm a fan of the piece, though, I'm unsure if the lack of traditional capitalization and punctuation helped or hurt it.