I was in Toronto a few weeks ago, in the heart of the Kensington hood: Rooftop view from cousin's funhouse:
After drinking copiously into the wee hours with a variety of townies, folksies, roughnecks and playas, there was but a few of us blazing herb on the rooftop. I heard some footsteps on the ledge behind and above me.
I look up and snapped this quick pic of some dude who apparently lives on the roof top. Police don't bother this guy according to the locals. He wears a hoody year round and carries a briefcase. They say he lives in a small attic-type shack and keeps pigeons as pets. He came about this far but said nothing. We asked him if he wanted to hit the spliff but he just kept silent and then walked away.
Is this the real Ghost Dog?
Sunday, October 25, 2009
was down for a wedding,
hanging from the north collar of Chicago,
a college town,
for serious grey matter,
and serious coin,
studying, bonding, growing,
nice cars, coffee shops and lap tops...
I was in a hotel with fancy soaps, white porcelain and soft towels,
witnessed loving words being exchanged over expensive dishes of food,
bottles of expensive wine,
fancy suits and talk of prestigious goals and notable
I've been to many ceremonies,
receptions, after parties
and collections of eager people on the cusp of their new life
my old dance moves, beer buzz and sweat soaked
lovers hold each other drunkenly,
swaying unsteadily to The Beatles,
outside the cold wind grabs my blazer,
as I walk past the rosy cheeked sophomores,
discussing the media of politics,
the politics of the media,
I remember that freshness...
the jog between classes,
hot coffee and quiet libraries,
soon to grow into frustrated suburbanites,
angry about the weather, taxes and bad backs,
standing on the pier,
I take large swallows from the Michelob
in my coat pocket,
it occurs to me,
my desire for marriage dies more
with every wedding I attend,
but my drunken thoughts end as quickly as they begin,
like the path of a paper cup,
thrown by the wind,
floating on the froth,
of Lake Michigan.