z o s o _ o n e _ b l o g: February 2009

the following is a rambling free-writing exercise i did several months ago. half political rant half beat prose about my neighborhood, i never intended to share it with the world. but reading it after the fact i kinda like it, so here:

an exercise in futility an exercise in creativity an exercise in spending my time.

the world is sick! god has coughed out of him a salty slime called humanity. we are organisims, we eat and we breathe and we shit and we fuck. a synapse in the frontal lobe causes a a chemical reaction. the surface area of the small intestine is the size of a tennis court.

old lady with gold teeth stands behind bulletproof acrylic plate an inch thick and open shirted blue collar boys with belt buckles and worn down paint sprayed cement sprayed work boots hang outside. lady of guadalupe, the virgin mary, six churches are open between here and vermont five blocks away. tacate. behind the scratched plexi and below the stale spice packets, behind the old lady that stands eye level to the counter with her huge glasses covering half her face, stands jesus christo four feet tall and pale like porcalin, with faded robes of purple clutching a staff. picture of a little girl, rosary beads. dollar bills in his fist. heinikin. chillado. calling card. bikini girls bud lite with lime fade in the window. marlboro lite 100's.

the corner bus stop a social club for those without a kitchen table or a coffe table or a leg to stand on. a story is written on that wall if you know the language. lady floats by on bended knees, a walking skeleton with skin stretched so tight around it its shiny. low cut blouse and biker shorts, lucky us. anatomy lesson of how frigile the human pelvis looks without all that flesh hugging it. carniceria that doesnt sell carne, will it be a forty or a duece-duece? swisher sweet or garcia y vega? how you doin tonight man, excuse me. hey there how ya doin, spare change help a brotha out? car ran outa gas, trying to get a taco, need to make a call help a brotha out? okay, i aint gunna lie, the other guys all lie, i aint gunna lie i'm trying to buy a beer. c'mon whaduya say man i got this drum kit for sale.

dead grey buff paint 50 coats thick, flaky and dusty and chunky and grimy. no matter how many times they repaint it it never stays clean. never looks fresh. the soot and the smog and the paint and the posters, they cover no matter what. a little girl's shoe.

dead beat down beat blue collar hombres play poker on a tuesday afternoon in a second story victorian bay window breakfast nook.

we all owe money to the system. even me with no debt i have debt. we all have debt. the dollar is debt. roses on the freeway onramp, i love you mom. thanks for bringing me into this mess, what the fuck was everyone thinking? america with its shiny rims and toaster ovens, i want my six hundred dollars. print a bunch more money and dole it out, that'll help. more meaningless credits to trade for shit from over the seas were that money came from in the first place. its okay, no payments till 2009, go ahead. lower the taxes and make more money, make a shit ton more while its still good.

i was recently invited by a high school art teacher (whom shares only one degree of separation from knowing me in a couple different directions) to contribute to decorating his school's art building. he is a huge fan of graffiti and street art, and is using it as a medium to teach kids that art cannot only be cool and within their reach, but also to encourage them to stand out and make a statement. Manual Arts High in South Central has a bad rap and is a typical institutionalized inner-city school with all the problems associated with them, but with the exception of the art building with Mr. _______'s help. As you can see i am in good company and there are several more well known heads on deck to contribute very soon. the kids were stoked and it was a rad experience! i wish my high school had this going on!