|
The Passage of a Few People Through a Rather Brief Moment in Time: We Ain't Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain
09.16.09
One or more persons during a certain period drop their usual motives for movement and action, their relations, their work and leisure activities, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.
It's a bike ride.
It's a WEDNESDAY NIGHT bike ride.
Started by user nathansnider and user theroyalacademy.
It meets every WEDNESDAY at 8:30pm at California Donuts #21.
We ride at 9pm.
We'll endeavor to return before the last red line trains (around midnight).
On this bike ride, you might expect:
- full moon picnics
- inconvenient passageways
- "cover" versions of other people's rides, performed with amateurish enthusiasm
- amateurish enthusiasm
- disorientation
- reorientation
- pool halls
- bowling alleys
- dance parties
- karaoke
- geocaching
- oblique strategies
- Oulipian constraints
- traffic median tea parties
- rivers that no longer exist
- smell tourism
- Couchwick v2.0
Furthermore:
- a medium pace (maybe not for beginners; certainly not a hustle)
- but we're not in a rush; we don't need to run every light
- we are meeting with Borfo's Bukowski Ride this week
- the route is quite flat
- victory donuts!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
This week:
We Ain't Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain
"it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren't built to carry off that much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from roofs
and there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn't
STOP
and all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again."
-Charles Bukowski
There are tunnels everywhere in this city. There are tunnels beneath your feet.
They carry away the rain and the motor oil. They carry away the wastes of those with nowhere else to go. They carry away candy wrappers and cigarette butts and chewing gum chiseled from the sidewalk. They carry away the dust of twelve and one half million abandoned dreams. Everything that lands in the gutter, all mixed together, washed out to sea.
We will folllow these tunnels from above as we make our way to Bukowski's birthplace and back.
Poetry in the gutter.
The hacienda must be built.
|
|
|
-->
Ridazz Roulette!
Midnight Ridazz(tm), Ridazz(tm) and Skull(tm) Reproduction without written permission prohibited.