Are we all homeless?

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Does it make sense? Are we all homeless?

Milk cartons hanging from metal rods, full of white milk. Light pink straps, light green straps, tie down nothing. They do decorate, though I’m not sure what. The colors feel nice, like finding your missing black sock, like the sun poking through the clouds. But It’s not Easter. There is no third day under a bridge, in a gallery. It’s all art, it’s all life. But what about my english class? I never went. My teacher, she didn’t care. So I can’t speak to you. I don’t know where I came from, I don’t know what I’m looking at. I know a bridge though, it keeps me dry when it never rains in LA. And the metal rods, they’re stainless steel. They keep my shopping cart off the internet. It’s my mobile home. The items in my cart they are my thoughts, they are my words, my yelling, my thuggin, my brothas. I talk to them. They tell me who be snitchin. I put them on my top shelf. I fight you for the best wall space; this group show is actually a me show. Some nice time in the big yard. Can I get a hand out? You know my name? It’s Saint Art. Give me the glory. All you others rest in peace. It’s a glass of milk in the morning. Turn off your phone. Turn off the on-ramp. The books lead to Europe. My great great uncle was a spy for England. I’m down for Proust too. Pink is most definitely the color of perfection. And I’ll shake my ass for some madeleines. Dolla bills y’all. I’ll hang em’ out to dry on my steel meat hooks. Don’t touch ’em. That’s my shit. American dollas.

Don’t make a sitcom to watch on your laptop about this, not about my dollar, not about my life, not about my home, my family, where I came from. It’s not for you to watch as you drive by, as you proceed. The 101 is jahamed for sure. But don’t look at me. Don’t pray for me. This blanket is my roof, these palm trees are my Gods. I’ll hang your piece on my imaginary wall. I’ll drop it into my black hole, and turn it into a rabbit. We all got a little rabbit in us anyway. You can try to escape, you can use my material, all my words, all my thuggin, all my brothas, to not make sense. Let’s think about Europe again. Wait, everywhere is an America. So we’re all good, right? Listen, Italy is my favorite country for real. Though my other great great grandfather was a coffin maker in Germany. Now all I have is this stainless steel, this white milk, these pink and green straps, this ticket to ride. As a stowaway.

Move the rock, uncover the tomb. All the meaning is gone. I use to chill under that bridge. Now I’m a surfer, and I’ll give you the eye as you buy your burrito. I’ll write some songs about it. Look into the sad beauty that the blessed tomb holds. Get off my wave Darrel. Meaning is gone. The ground is still warm though. We still need that center though. Get barreled by that thuggin dolla, make nice and pretty with the almighty white wall y’all. Wait no. I’m down for the cause. See, I like texture. I’m so clean I need it. Pinot Grigio. This particular one has multiple origins. I’ve never been a huge fan of Planet Earth anyways. But yeah I was raised on milk. So was my cute little puppy. Let’s cheers to that. Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa’ dentro! To puppies and milk and the color pink and being strapped and to this bridge, to my motha fuckin shopping cart, to your new art materials, to thuggin, and lovin, and huggin, to moving the rock, to keeping the tomb empty, to the outside, to no new real meaning, to a milk carton, a pink strap and a green strap, to tying down nothing.

Does it make sense? Are we all homeless?

 

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