it's just a bottle,
broken by time
(encouraged by
a wandering brick)
streaked with scratches
(like your newly
purpled hair)
and tossed out
on the garbage heap
for rag pickers
to make a rupee off.
it's just a bottle,
dammit.
but once upon a time
it held good wine.
and it now holds
green light
and magic
and the sweet sour smell
of memory.
and while i cannot grudge
a rupee earned
i'd rather keep the bottle,
broken.
red.
hobble hobble
clink clink
but
walled off
by a
rolled up
(fast! before she reaches us!)
window
hobble hobble
clink clink
orange... (honk! honk!)
green! (screech!)
hobble hobble
clink clink
hobble hobble
clink clink
a bottle full
of sunshine
pretty pretty
dark dark
stark
frozen
cold.
a bottle full
of sunshine
happy happy
blood blood
mud
squelchy
mold.
a bottle full
of sunshine
three days
old.
i love this article. this is the kind of creative, direct action i'd like to be part of. beautiful!
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Standing beside two parked cars, two men in dark baseball hats wait for the signal.
It's broad daylight and nearly rush hour on Bloor. A woman in paint-stained jeans sprints ahead of the men, scanning the street. Another stations herself across the road, surveying the speeding cars for police. The thumbs-up sign is given.
The painting can begin.
Seconds later, a cardboard bike stencil is thrown on the road and the first of seven cans of hot pink paint is emptied on a stretch of Bloor St. W.
"Putting in a bike lane?" asks a teenage girl cycling by.
read the full story here.
there's a certain arrogance, a certain naivety in thinking that one can change the world, a certain pig headed stubbornness in continuing to try. sometimes i think the buddha had a point. you can never change the world around you, you can only transcend it. the examined life is a little over rated-it only causes pain and confusion. leave the world to itself-it has figured its own way out before. before i came along with my story book idealism and hope. leave it all.
then again...
