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Andrei Zvyagintsev, The Banishment, 2007
Zoo
Unbridled, the sick pony
traverses listlessly a circle.
Something something about
the indifference of crows.
Nature draws a crowd:
amateur photographers
drawn to the ellipsis
of weather, the dew point
of sumac and wisteria vines.
Cross the sturdy footbridge;
greet the slack-jawed child.
Do not tell me this is not
beautiful, the clay heart
of Nature in the throes
of inconsequence, before
its animation by mind.
“Who”
Here in LA a lot of people have been talking, writing, reminiscing on the riots of ’92. What about the kids of ’12?
Who gives a fuck about how it was.
Give a fucking fuck about how it is.
The kids today don’t need the adults worrying about shit that has nothing to do with them now. Hey adults, focus on what is burning down now.
I was there in ’92 and I’m here now. “Look how far we’ve gone” mentality is for the fucking birds. Feed the kids and be selfish in your selflessness.
Some other shit I’ve been hearing is the “now” joke of – oh those are first world problems. What does that even fucking mean? Shift your efforts and walk through South LA, through the empty pockets of our youth, through the bedrooms of the abused, through the universe of Los Angeles street on Skid Row. I don’t get the punch line and that shit ain’t funny.
I’ve been going through some deep shit this week. Butterfly block party. I’ve been thinking about leaving cooking for awhile. I can’t find meaning anymore. I traveled the path. Culinary school. NYC restaurants. Professional career. Flavor innovator.
But what does it all mean?
People that I try to convince in business that there is something special here, right here..only ask me about profitability.
Profitability?
Maybe I talk like I’m from Saturn but I don’t understand profitability.
Profitability when our whole existence is at stake?
Fuck you.
I stopped eating meat this week. That’s why I’m thinking about leaving cooking. How can I cook with out using meat? I will taste, for now as that is my profession. But I will no longer eat meat for my own consumption.
Animals be talking to me. They told me..stop. Stop, Roy. Please.
I talk to animals and kids. I feed adults. Time to switch. Talk to adults. Feed animals and kids.
What are we gonna do about our streets now that you adults have accepted street food?
Are we supposed to put our faith in this man Jamie Oliver? A Brit? If so, then if anyone who reads this tell him to holla at me. Really. I can’t get to him. Tell him come see me, no PR, no publicist, no barriers. We can sit on the curb and join forces.
I’ll walk the streets, he can walk the boardrooms.
I got Jah turning my purpose into one long dreadlock. One long beanstalk.
Who is gonna go to the clouds?
Who?
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by Michele Glazer
Thinking of Madame Bovary -- Jane Kenyon -
The first hot April day the granite step was warm. Flies droned in the grass. When a car went past they rose in unison, then dropped back down. . . . I saw that a yellow crocus bud had pierced a dead oak leaf, then opened wide. How strong its appetite for the luxury of the sun! Everyone longs for love’s tense joy and red delights. And then I spied an ant dragging a ragged, disembodied wing up the warm brick walk. It must have been the Methodist in me that leaned forward, preceded by my shadow, to put a twig just where the ant was struggling with its own desire.
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