Cultural Studies (Part II)

i've been wanting to write something about my neighborhood for a while, and i was trying to focus on the contrast between this bizarre illuminated construction site that's right across a six-foot concrete-block wall from a children's playground, on the same block. there's this huge tractor crane that kind of hangs-looms over the wall. anyway, instead i'm going to illustrate another contrast. recently two hand-made signs went up in my main lobby/central stairshaft entrance:

"Fight Back: This is Whack!
Please contact our local police precinct to report the unsafe conditions on our block. There have been a number of muggings @ GUNPOINT! at the corner of Bushwick and McKibbin. We must protect ourselves from threats of violence and make this building safe. The local precinct is
[precinct #]
[precinct phone number]"

and

"END POLICE OPPRESSION!
Dont tolerate this kind of grandstanding for authorities. We should be teaming up with the local poor, not excoriating them for resorting to alternative industry.
Give me a break pansies. Where did you think you moved? Boardwalk? Check your rent. Housing in this neighborhood is inexpensive but believe it or not there are still people who live here who struggle to afford it. You grabbed a piece of here. So theyre going to grab a piece of yours. And they go and grab their piece.
[drawing of a gun and a peace logo]
-- Peace"

Lyricide

There’s only one way to measure
The ways that your treasure
Becomes the way to our pleasure
You don’t know how
the times have changed
and I’ve never seen how
my wandrin waned
but I can’t help drown the days in vain in bed
while tunnels just house the trains all day
and I oughto start ridin all the way in stead
but it’s just one way to measure
the way that my leisure
comes from the pain that lays here like lead

you’ve been my girl
you’ve been my girl
where do I sign up again

it’s been a long time in the comin
but my laundry’s getting done and
the lords wont let me stop runnin
I just don’t feel
Whats so different here
And I wont ever kneel
Out of lonely fear
But I can’t always keep out in light or in swell
There are streets dark with sighs outside
And I found out how to write out the night
So nows a time so long comin
There’s laundry to be brung in
And I wont stop till I’ve been well served and fed

You’ve been my girl
You’ve been my girl
Why shouldn’t I leave you again

You’ve been my girl
You’ve been my girl
Where shall we come from again

Missed Connections Fiction

A quarter of the shit on there has to be fake already. It'll be the new/hip medium. No really, I'm tellin' you. Here's a little story by me. I was going to link to it, but it might get me caught. But it is up on craig's list chicago site under missed connections.

Here it is:

You wore a long pink coat and a yellow, flowery cap. - 24

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: anon-49949388@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-11-23, 3:18AM CST


You are a girl. You got on the blue line at Division and exited on California. I was wearing sunglasses (kind of stupid at night I know, but I was outside all day and hate to squint), a red hooded sweatshirt and my hair was brown. You were with a man that wore a brown leather jacket and grey slacks who kicked my brown messenger's bag, that I had set on the floor, into my feet as he walked by my seat. He stood by the doors at the front of our car, smiled, whispered something into your ear and then spit towards me. The spittle didn't hit me, but landed too close. You smiled at me and, I think, mouthed, "Let's get together."

I bet that guy you were with is funny and nice once you get to know him. You both seemed to poke and tease like friends not lovers. You may not believe it, but I really don't hate him for spitting. I'm fairly sure he thinks I'm a dipshit, but he won't remember me. And you can just say we met at a bar and hit it off. Then he'll have to give me a chance. Just don't tell him about this little message. I know how important it is to girls that their male friends accept their suitors.

So anyway, yes, let's.


this is in or around Blue Line to O'Hare Monday Night
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests



49949388

Act Now

The Sharpton shirts are here. I've been talking about doing this for a while -- since before the primaries, when I thought it would have been funnier -- but now it's done and it takes on a different humor after the last election. But this is the print my roommate Paul and I made for tshirts; if anyone wants one let me know. Right now there are just these white-on-black like jadakiss's "WHY?" shirts, but we can do any color as many as needed: we have the screen forever. If you don't want one and just want to talk about things, that's swell too.

For more of Paul's work, check out his web site.

No Really. I Did.

I remember once seeing a documentary on Oliver North's run for Senate in Virginia. One scene in the documentary showed a child around 4 or 5 years of age. The camera operator asked the child who he would vote for in the at-the-time-upcoming Senate election. He replied, "Ollie North." Then his mother, or possibly grandmother, said, "Show him your gun," and handed the child a rifle. The matriarch then asked the child to tell the camera operator what he shot with the rifle. The child answered "Clay pigeons and immi-grass." The woman then smiled and corrected him saying, "Clay pigeons and immigrants, right!"

A Shoddy Exercise In Verse

To be recited while walking, in rhythm with footsteps.

As I'm known to do most Saturdays' eves
I made my way down to Big Michigan street

The locals may say, "In truth it's an Ave."
But in rhyming with "eves", "street" is all I have

I started by train and finished on foot
Stepped off of the tracks, only minutes it took

Before I saw sights that tickled my eyes
People cross-legged near a scraper of skies

On blankets they sat, eyes closed yet intent
A row of 'bout twenty, protesting I bet

Pray'r? Meditation? I couldn't tell which
A sign asked for some sort of policy switch

Moved past the group, saw equines in a trailer
And just out the back, a tail swished like its neighbor

Inside they stood, two abreast and two long
I wondered, like me if they asked "What went wrong?

"How'd I get caught and how do I get out?
To think THIS is all makes me worry, breeds doubt"

I walked by a church and almost walked past
Then thought of attending the five o'clock mass

It'd been more than months, church could answer a question
But I'd need more than just one one-hour session

Moving along just blocks from the Mile
I thought of them shoppers and their form of guile

Were we like those horses? Were we being caged?
Did they think these things? Did they fill them with rage?

I couldn't decide with my mind torn asunder
But still I kept on and continued to wonder

I realize now that I've used "wonder" twice
I'm sorry, but wonder's my most tempting vice

Did the buyers and sellers think things that I thought?
And if not who endures the more terrible lot?

Is well-analyzed the real right way to go?
Or is burning the book and embracing the flow?

As I walked t'ward a store and alit its threshold
I stopped asking questions and entered invest mode

Bought things to appease myself during the meantime
It's time I enjoyed them, not continue with this rhyme

Yeah yeah fuck em

Everyone knows about the cops. Jail was never fun but it may have been more fun than the persistent hounding of the posturban police who haunted our childhoods. New York City's police department is so specialized we get to have the neighborhood cops coexist with officers of various enforcement; narcotics, homicide, fraud, etc. Well it was the neighborhood officers at our door last night, complaining our bands were disturbing this residential zone, the bass echoing off all the empty factories and public housing buildings, each answering with its own woven rhythms and beats.
They shut us down for our safety, and for our guests, who may have been followed to the subway station and robbed, the captain said. I had to stand guard ensuring no bottles left the doorway, thinking about the hat circulating for the bands' collection, and hoping the interior doors stayed closed. But these constables were only interested in noise, and never lifted their noses. The volume down, the apartment emptied, they went on their cruising way. The liquor gone, our friends yet arrived. The futon trampled with footprints. There. Behind the microwave, above the fridge. A bag of food; chips, cheetos.
We ate and smoked and shaked hands and danced a little more. They say fuck the police. They say they aint too smart. I remember a gentleman said sometimes the cops come and fuck with you. Sometimes they do and they dont.

Testing The Slick Block Quote Code

Someone said this once. Once someone said this. However, they added one twist. Insistent grief bleeds need. Particularly paltry poetry. Very verbose verse.

Will this work? Will it not? Where's the torque? Is it hot? No more questions, just testing. Make it long enough to get a good idea though. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.