Krog Street Tunnel: Ephemeral Gallery

Lyrics

First the smell hits you.
Metallic sweet. Aerosol and damp concrete.
You leave the BeltLine's easy sun,
step down into the cool, into the noise.

The walls are thick with ghosts.
So many layers of paint you could excavate them like a tell.
Find a message from last Tuesday
buried under a portrait from last night.
This is the artery that connects
Inman Park's quiet porches to the pulse of Cabbagetown.
A hundred feet of shouting color
under the weight of the CSX mainline.

And the train thunders over it all.
The iron punctuation mark.
This gallery has no curator, no closing time.
Just a concrete lung that breathes in paint
and exhales a new truth every morning.
A conversation that never, ever stops.

Here's a memorial for a friend I never knew.
Here's a marriage proposal, already half-covered by a furious political screed.
Here are the flyers for a show that's already happened.
The paint is still tacky on this piece,
a face staring out from the brick,
but the edges are already blurring.
Someone's waiting for the cars to pass,
can in hand, ready to answer.

And the train thunders over it all.
The iron punctuation mark.
This gallery has no curator, no closing time.
Just a concrete lung that breathes in paint
and exhales a new truth every morning.
A conversation that never, ever stops.

It’s a crime, I guess.
This beautiful, constant vandalism.
A thousand anonymous hands in the dark,
speaking their piece before the sun comes up.
The city looks away.
Benign neglect.
They know you can't scrub a soul off a wall.
You can only paint over it.
And someone always will.

Walking out into the Krog Street Market glare.
Blinking. The air outside feels thin.
And I know,
turning my back,
the wall is already changing.
The conversation continues without me.