nyc counterfeit

counterfeit. new york

I wasn’t in new york this morning but it was summer and the roads were paved and they served bagels for breakfast. the time zone was pacific and a war was on the television. i was wearing sweatpants with stripes down the side when we passed the community garden, hunting for coffee and thirsting for a few solid hours together. i think it costs more than a hundred dollars to mint a hundred dollar bill to fend off all the counterfeits. a liberty bell like gold braille pushes off the paper, and blue 100’s levitate up a sleeve. i’m calling my pops on father’s day, the phone is ringing, mom picks up. i run some interference and fingers through the weave.

vitamin k. 2017

the inspiration for ‘nine twelve’

I wrote this piece – nine twelve – while lying in bed on nine eleven, fourteen years after the world trade towers got struck by airliners and caught fire and burned for an eternity and went down after the ones who had held hands and jumped. All day I had been trying to avoid any media coverage or images related to the disaster, unsuccessfully. Sometimes i just wish we could move on. Without the fear of forgetting. We could move on and still remember, couldn’t we? Anyways I guess I thought I had moved on and maybe I hadn’t completely processed it all.

 The day it went down I woke up in Chicago next to my housemate who had recently shared with me her love of the Sonic Youth and we had something in common besides getting high and going to thrifts. It was a bright and sunny day and long past dawn. I was hungover and lit a joint. She was still asleep. I turned on the tv which I had recently fished out of one of the closets and put in an awkward place on the hardwood floor with the rabbit ears by the door to the bedroom. I never was big on tv. Anyway, I had taken the first few drags on the pinner and had to blink many times, because the smoke was in my eyes, and then the smoke i saw billowing out the sides of the mammoth building in the heart of the beating heart of the USA, New York City. The first plane had struck, the second was yet to come, and for many minutes with the coverage the way it was I only saw a burning building and presumed some jackass had played ding dong ditch on their boss with a wastebasket full of shred. Then the phone on a cord in the hallway rang and knocked me out of the wide awake nightmare. I raced to get it, stoned. Feeling immortal. Feeling immaculate. I was all of 28, and in a year and two months I would be kicking dope in rehab, in California. I was a young blood and my head was hard as the rocks. When I told my mom I figured it was only a matter of time, she called me a Communist and hung up the phone like the good baby boomer she was. I shrugged and went back to the tv. She had been calling me a Communist since the day I brought home the Soviet red bible with its candy red cover, the Marx-Engels reader. I woke up my girlfriend and we watched in awe as the second airliner slammed into the second tower. And the tears began to fall.
 Fourteen years later I am different and still the same. I wrote this piece on nine eleven. On the surface it has nothing to do with nine eleven. But the feeling that inspired this piece was a feeling of finally moving on from a tragedy. The tragedy of the country. The tragedy of my life back then. The trade towers were not the only thing burning. I was.

Oddity #7

An eighth day was added to the week and Gregorian calendar, without approval of the Church. This allowed the populace a seventy-two hour yawn, aka ‘seventh day stretch’, before returning to the essential five day work week. And archived the general american angst.

The State Department Store sold the new issue calendar copy out of refurbished former Sears franchises, which offered ample square footage for safe houses and the novel Homeland Security and Exchange Commission.

The HSEC was setup as a critical watchdog to oversee and protect American interest overseas, now that shares of the United States, Incorporated, sold at a slight premium to its initial public offering on the New York Stock Exchange.

The trillion plus dollars raised in this remarkable, unprecedented, scandalous public offering, spearheaded by the now defunct President Trump, Donald

(whose final veto of the critical congressional legislation set to block his party’s ‘Incorporation of the States’ initiative preceded his impeachment)

was now being issued toward the most unfortunate application of architectural mindtrust ever known to man, aka the blueprinting of a male counterpart to miss america herself, the Statue of Liberty.

The giant slab of poured concrete was already spiraling up out of the waters like a Dairy Queen soft ice cream cone, to house the new symbol of grand patriarchy ever alive and well.

Apollo, of course, was the model.
The Trump Tower affiliate, of course, had been jettisoned.

But plans to use the hollow carbon fiber globe situated firmly within Apollo’s head of reinforced steel, for home offices for the New Chairman of the Board and CEO of the United States, Inc.

(and not necessarily the President)

were subpoenaed by the Justice Department, and were now being relentlessly scrutinized by the tired eyes of the Attorney General, with the Supreme Court perched precariously over his shoulder, overlooking the whole sordid affair.

Meanwhile, an Pan-Euro-Middle-Asian Investment Cabinet of whose who, had been vetted atop the tallest edifice in Dubai, and was now casting its first votes under a mirrored ceiling, over pi

nk champagne on ice,  to determine what  would  really happen across the Atlantic.

Sitting at the head of this VIP table of leaded glass with platinum trim of inlaid pearl, was none other than the greatest surprise of the evening, most touching to all… the prime beneficiary of all global casino holdings and friend to all four seasons, fair women and men.