The Blocks Bust Themselves No truly random or stray bullets, not here, not anwhere. Helpless grief can’t seem to clean itself up in Riviera Beach. No sabal palm trees for these forsaken, just another cracktown pushdown, urban sprawl with no place left to run. Deep pockets circle high on penthouse horses, drooling, giddy, gurgling up the smell of moral decay, watching, waiting for the sound, community self-implosion. It’s guaranteed suicide from the inside, and the blocks bust themselves. They always do. The hold-outs don’t know it, soon to be the next wave. Reluctant pilgrims, pioneers, revolutionaries, refugees, fugitives run blindly from the place of displacement. Smart ones head for someplace safe. Malcontents all, wearing stories they don’t want spun from the same thread, victims grow before the harvest, urban renaissance.