Peeled myself from my computer chair to track down the South Minneapolis Murder that the past two weeks has tempted me to crash on my evening commute through the gloaming.
This cheery afternoon the crows are nowhere to be found, but I make the best of laced boots and prowl my old ‘hood.
I’ve always loved the west side of Joe’s Chicken Shack.
HOTTEA(-esque?) yarn lacing the fence.
The silly, sad, wonderful things we want before we die.
I liked the murder on facebook. Next time I’ll be ready.
I wonder if they know the other side of the tunnel will only show the same sunset storm sky, but I suppose this assumes they’ll make it. Takes it for granted they saw it once already and decided it wasn’t enough or what they thought telling or important to confront, to mend. Didn’t hit the right notes, speak the right language. Convince of a future of further dismantling. Facts are so goddamn boring. Lies tell our hearts what is true.
If one more time I hear “kick the can down the road,” I will exPLOrobably say nothing.
Poverty, greed, disgrace and disgust all need better emotional branding.
I weaved down Nicollet, in my old ‘hood, and hauled my bike up the side of the curb so I could better see what new wundr had arrived, heck! and all I fixed to do was rustle Chinese fake ham I later made a sandwich out of for my dad and he asked what it’s made of, so I told him: magic.
You have seen this side of the building before.
Sinbad’s Cafe and Deli on Nicollet Ave has been closed for months, maybe years now. The Middle East fare was smashing, a fond destination for foodage in the early-mid aughts. (Yes, that was me, involved in the unfortunate incident with the washroom bidet.)
They did rice right, man, in a way you’d want to fill up on that alone, as though the grape leaves, pita and baba ghannouj weren’t stunning, and then you’d feel foolish, did you not feel amazing.
It’s a shell now. Sad and ghastly. Arabic-inscribed drop ceiling still intact, but shambles within. Growing a jinn.
I say I went to Vancouver to see You Are Not Dead. But the city knows better, the foreshore best.
Thanks, Moon, for low tide the first time and again for my last, so I could meet and roam my favorite place on earth.
And a Commercial Drive dumpster for good measure:
Speaking of dumpsters, we saw the largest salad in North America.
Salad shooter…
