The talent sharks are quietly honing their knives in the back rooms of Chelsea’s biggest galleries. This is unprecedented. Open Art Surgery.
There is only one other couple eating at present. Scandinavians. The prices are in CU, not in Cuban pesos, which means Cubans do not eat there.
A caloric bomb explodes in a store on my right. Belgian fries, deadly ice creams… A sign says: “Everything Made with Love”. Enemy propaganda. Keep running.
I was born that way. It’s because my mother had sex with my father on their first date. And there I was: the product of one too many glasses of Barolo.
A born and raised New Yorker, I learned in the old days never to make eye contact and to always avoid even the smallest interaction…
And so she had to Burn his paintings, All the way down to the wick All the way down to their Bed-Stuy bones
… her products aren’t my poison of choice. Workout clothes and a yoga mat disguised her as any of the other usual suspects walking down St. Marks Place.
As was said once by Gandhi: “Earth provides enough to satisfy every man’s need, but not every man’s greed”.
It was a sweltering August night. It had been unusual to see Yankee Stadium dressed up for soccer. We were walking across the subway overpass and I looked down. A brownish river of people was moving slowly under us like a gigantic amoeba. It spread until it disappeared into the dark. A smell of spilled sugary drinks and human sweat impregnated the liquid air. We were just a gigantic blob of flesh rolling its way home. Shot with an Olympus xz-1.
