holy days, unholy nights

She had just finished supergluing the iron-on patches to her black jeans, shamelessly, when the BBC reported her city and the night before, the scandalous yet predictable situations that played out on the streets when certain dice were cast and rolled and bounced into a combination of numbers which, when added together, spelled trouble.

self-portrait. October. K by K.

the kind of numbers # she could coherently put together for you on a gray cloud with a silver-stained lining, and halloween behind the ears like a cool whip of winter winds on the nape of your neck, a sweet lick. Sick! When someone in any given room in any given west side victorian half-rehabbed three story apartment had mind to meet the fullness of her face the fullness of her hot stare, the depth of her purpose you can believe just like you buy the street talk on the east side in a slurpee swishersweet rhetoric, ghetto to the bone, descended from the self-made men like Douglas, Frederick. 

the facts: the modus operandi of the U.S. Economy gave allowance to money-stuffed lobbyists with their snake oil sad puppet show in the anteroom of the Oval Office and salivating over the possibilities of taking hold of a fat chunk of the peoples purse, aka Walmart style, and fashioning of it something in its own imprint; lets call it a tribute, a remembrance, something made of granite with a marble skin maybe, a monument, something that will last long past us, in time we trust, until entrusted to the 24/7 receiving dock called the ground, mother earth, in truth no matter how you play it, she's waiting to catch ya with her big widespread smile and open arms like you never seen! 

me and gee-gee. by K

Maybe you consider yourself lucky. Blessed. Cause you might have imagined this for yourself. This life beyond todays reality. Guess no fears will paralyze you or divide you from your intention and purpose, macro were talking. Micro sent to the back of the mess hall... in no uncertain terms: Micro? we sent packing. 

hollowscene, ten thirty-one, eleven. K by K.

Yes! finally its your turn toward the bright lights big macro city, let it happen like a jam, slow. You gotta go with it as it hits, dont fight, nah, dont fight the flow. Stay a comfortable distance from the yayo, breathe in the air from the extro to the endo, outside in, eradicate all sin, eradicate piss and vinegar venom so the social occupants see you through into the fresh intelligent bloodclot of baby boomer babies in unity, almost magically! rock steady. 

Standing with honor, standing steadily in the face of riot gear five ohs, suburban cops now face to face with the history of a hard city American, face to face it turns out with the very wave which is inviting the so-called opposition into the spray and healing salt waters of american daughters with their scarves wrapped like a flag, falling then they tag the american sons and daughters, depends on how you orient yourself, gravitating somewhereabouts, regardless of class, race, status, wealth, she determine where she stop to hangout, where she is most welcome, the air, sees to the doubt, vaporized with a snap, trail of water overchlorinated, straight out the city tap.