Old grapes sing hard inside this shallow cup while hens teeth whisper sweetness to the fog.
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Sous les pavés, la plage - MDW ART FAG CITY
I Totally Appropriated This From A Lori Waxman Article Thank You...
I'm really disturbed that so much maliciousness and misunderstanding is radiating from the MDW event this weekend. I see some stalwarts of our august community striking enigmatic and judgii poses while hoping to see fireworks and fiddle playing. This event, fair, or un-fair did what it has done in prior years when it didn't face eviction or hurricane related issues. It brought together a community to gaze at some belly buttons and drink some beer and talk productively with one another. I think that MDW's critics miss or have missed the essential nature of what this community is and how it comports itself in the face of an art world that refuses to catch up with us. Despite inventing the gangster and the skyscraper we are here because so many before us were here too. As Chicagoans we understand and embrace this rich history. Our presence in this city is our gift to each other. As well as the chance opportunities afforded by any reminder that a beach is under the Magnificent Mile.* Also**
*Ed, Ed, Ed, really? **Michael Workman and Pedro Velez sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G
What say the fallen in theVestibule, late to dinner Warm as a garden chairYes to that, to tea and all in the green as pale as peaches will get Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet. Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss. Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…
Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.