LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Greg Fuchs

The City


Reenact the mayhem. Sick hammers a nail through his penis
as an argument with death. Everyone wants a piece of the hardest working
author in the Lower East Side. He makes every party, he cuts his own hair,
he is loved by all. Love isn't a box of money. The subway lunges forward
at every stop. Coffee spills all over the cuffs. The cheap suit doesn't fool
anyone, then again you can fool a fool. Civil disobedience enlightens
the Bronx in the face of city hall's arrogance. A score of bullets deposited
in the flesh of the peddler passed off as routine policing flashes the
underbelly of the war on the quality of life. The quality of life is inundation.
Drunk on wine her brain makes acid and her hand makes a pass, locking
her forearm through the triangle made by my arm on my hip. He cuts
his own hair because, who has time to get their hair cut. Everyone loves
him because he's brilliant, humble, saintly in a competitive community.
You can't control him forever. The best time to go to bed is strong.
Twelvetrees' book--Ken Schles--Ves showed in the shop: high contrast,
soft focus, out of focus, dark photographs of tenement rooms,
naked bellies in kitchen bathtub, a man between a woman's legs
amid debris, lawn chairs, vines, girls on dates with girls, skyrockets
red glare. An albatross swoops, pecks the most beautiful man
in the world's nose as the rollercoaster car achieves its crest.
Getting to your bottom line isn't a force of nature. Good songs
tell the truth. All the chinos in the world won't bring us together,
the lie is just even more exposed as a lie by soundtracking the truth
behind the improper relations. Get your career out of your pants, chief.
Rogue cops reflect a rogue force. The tragedy is a crime not a tragedy.