jordan

rock, rock, rockaway beach.....what's up and ?? ahahahaha. i can't decide if i wanna go out to the city or stick it to the hood....so the gallery my book is at just struck a deal with MADHATTERS REVIEW so my work will appear in it very soon and a real promoter has been brought in for the WM3 benefit and he knows Metallica so yeah, arkansas is about to suck it ahahahaha and my new book's almost done, here's a bit from it. OH, and my set has been queued. sweeeeet, i think you all will enjoy. now go HERE and read what my puddin' pop wrote it's awesome....then read my shit, then you can go if you want

From Tales Spewed Down Cancer Alley at 100 Miles per Hour
Lonely Place, Place of Bright Waters

I had been watching his eyes like they were traffic lights. I slowly tried to get lost from it. I had to pull back from him; I was drunk and sunburned from him. I needed to escape. I took the train all the way out to 67th and Larkin. I wandered around an abandoned section of Rockaway Beach, home of the Canarsie Indians, where nothing gave me anything and therefore, nothing expected anything from me in return. There used to be an amusement park but it was destroyed in 1892 by a seaside fire. After that various attempts at building and stabilizing new play lands came and went but nothing ever seemed to hold. Now it felt like a vacant lot wanting to be left alone. These grounds didnt seem to desire anything more than the sound of the ocean and the rumbling trains it sat between. A few buildings were long abandoned and Im sure on a list somewhere to be torn down. There were huge piles of sand scattered about with chunks of debris mixed in, an old basketball court where rusty goals still stood looming over the cracked court like grey zombies, and a couple of bonsai trees alive and well amidst all the echoing remains of attempted funhouses and beach resorts. Really, when standing at the end of a paved trail trashed with empty KFC chicken buckets and energy drink bottles, it all looked like the aftereffects of a war zone. The ocean she did her thing; calmly sizing her foamy grin down until it unraveled around my naked feet. She drew her waves back like punches and rambled on passively. I sat down on a rock, admiring her pretty guts. I stared down at the sand dotted with fragile broken shells. I wanted to find a really big one with no holes. Over the next half hour that would become my primary goal; I felt like it would somehow help me prioritize the rest of my life. Id rest a minute then Id start my search. I noticed a lady bug paused on the end of a wet stick. The tip of the stick split into little bits like a chewed toothpick. I waited to see crabs or scorpions creep up from the sands, but I never did. All I saw was a spider the color of dirty glass on the other end of the stick where the lady bug had taken to and then a wave came in and took it all away. As I walked further south I came across a sign on a podium that declared this area of the beach home of certain endangered species: Watch for a spectacular display of nest defense as adult least terns dive-bomb approaching predators, such as gulls. The sign went on to explain why the section was kept so desolate and for bikers and joggers who chose the area for exercise to please be quiet and respectful. Too much noise could cause frighten adults to flee from nests, leaving eggs unattended and therefore exposing them to overheating and even starvation. The place was so vacant and rocked with silence because it was a safe haven for them.
I stayed for a bit longer. It just seemed fit.