Thursday, May 6, 2010

sketchbook: quicky b4 I head out.

Sweltering funk of the city rises with sunrise.
Steaming thoughts of aspirations slip off
the neck of my lover
and then quiet preparation for the day.
NYC, I love you babe, even if you got nothing on Detroit.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Just In Case: In Rambles & Rants

I wanted to note my neighbor does have chickens and a rooster, though it is "illegal" to posses within the city limits. The rooster has made it into my dreams because apparently a rooster crowing alarm at dawn sends my dreaming brain begging for a interpretation.  This rooster has also made it into my heart.  Why? Certainly not for the annoyance of a neighborhood cock waking me up before I want to, but because there is comfort in having chickens around. 

I think it goes back to growing up without much money and my parents had to rely on the garden and killing deer to feed our family one winter.  Not all of us growing up bobbing around the poverty line want governmental assistance.  I do believe we are just as rare though as a CEO who doesn't think he is entitled to government bail out (for f#$king up the job) or the upper beau monde who couldn't possibly imagine they ARE NOT entitled to everything their hearts' desire.  I digress into a rant.  Anywho, I grew up relying on myself first. Gardens are kept to feed us. Farmers are paid next to feed them. Hunting was a tool to feed the family too, not a fun sport so little Billie can get his pic with an 8 point buck.  Only after the garden runs dry does one ask for food stamps*. These were things you never let society try and bullsh!t you out of knowing how to do.  I dare say, there is something empowering about growing your own food before relying on governmental assistance. Still, I've been in the place and time when I was grateful for the protein, and I will do the same for my children in the event I bobble around that poverty line again some day.  One never knows and believe you me, it can happen to anyone.  With that said, this is why the chickens are awesomeness.  I live in the Capitol of the Mit. We are a part of the rusted motor vehicle alleyway in America; the Mecca for most of the homeless in this bankrupted State; and the number of folks on Food Stamps here grows daily (which isn't necessarily correlated to homelessness).  My neighbor has the right idea.  You know, just in case. 

*Not everyone has access to land nor a fair advantage to Urban GardeningGuerrilla Gardening, or Community Gardening. I say this because I know my family was privileged to have a constant home to live in and even here I have an advantage that can breed entitlement.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

sketchbook: Babel On...

...the dream dreaming me
Reality bottle necked dicerning sometime around sunrise when the cock crowed the waking of the day. It was my understanding that we gave up the cock-a-doodle-doo for R@dio shack snoozes and left the farmer at the city gates, churning up fields across the way from the new sub division somewhere far away from here. I rose from my bed and fed this meager head of mine with Socartes and Quaker Outmeal because I wanted to know if we settled on what defined a table anyway. Lady GaGa played in the background telling me all about her games of telephone and bad romances. Massive exodus began by noon. Two camps stampeding out the door of my head trying to get the fuck out of the mundane. The uptight heirophants who believe right action leads to righteous living and the fallen angels who boast their wingspans even though they’ve long since been grounded by their spirits. I take a wasted ass angel to the side and say, “that’s not you flying, a$$ hole, it’s the vicodin”. I light up a cigarette and sing moral incontenence to the morally righteous cluck of my tongue. I decide to brush off the angel and the devil who wants to weigh down these sholders. I don’t care about their glory story. Both are just trying to rack up the numbers for a new toaster, I tell myself, and I set to redefine everything. I am struck by the internal clock of that damn rooster living in the inner city with me. He’s so precise, I find I can’t get away from his time bombs laid throughout the day. Someone really should set him on vibrate, maybe one beep and stop with the a-doodle-doo all together.