Ah, kids these days.

Sorry i can show you any real pictures for the story. It would loose it's street cred before it was even born. how sad that would be. we might just get stuck here and drown in a flood that would

be nice and ironic perhaps some one would find all the little pieces and put them back together or try not knowing the pieces were never meant to go together. i could only......suggesting to large crowds of sclors and novelists that there were missing pieces and a grand hunt would sweep the world eager minds researching and hunting for the missing pieces of something that never was. Rebirth it would be grand hope fully, someone would figure it out and never say a word, they would see the...... in mystery the cerous mind is an inventive one and a relentless one.

just get it done never mind

reed blab'er farting around

and the 5 armed detectives

who mind you were very chill

none the less

the end is close but the finish line is farther away.

In the back of a house on a slab where a house

was at one time pounded in to the sand dropped

tossed flung hurled placed lied Begin to grow

collected obscure items some where

thats no where because they have no place to be

except where they are at that moment.

some behind the seines photos

the mayor

me passed out with jimmy and tippy

just the facts

The worst idea ever yep we did it

hunting for trash i mean truth

he was wearing a white t shirt and converse

by god i have it

reed at he brink of disaster as per usual

were gona ride i like a pony

so you are using front impellers?

no, no ammonia in your cooling solution?

This is My Brooklyn.

Something I imagine a post-apocalyptic society might look like, so I'm well prepared.

Highways the man's navigation power line, in to the belly

of the storm, on the path the right direction

the red thread, a tangled mess hypithical,

in the air 3200 feet above sea level traveling

at 500 mph. Fact 30 feet thick and mile wide, deep

below unseen disaster wright in front of your eyes

it's not them it's us, all of us running gasping

for air with flabby skin and glazed over eyes

moth pigs getting force fed prepackaged life till our intestine burst

ready to help stitching the bloody pus mess back in to working

consumption order.

I become my surroundings as they become me. Nothing

is for ever, but like a star in the far reaches

of the galaxy memory will shine on long after i am gone,

for the future to see un till the last of me fades in to

the indiscernible tones and waves of energy scattering

through out daily life, a whisper in the wind a glint in a

eye the caw of a crow.

and in this we i will live for ever but never stop

dying

On the road between mobile & bayou le batre the

highway is packed there are accidents

all most every day trucks and cars flipped over

contents scattered across the tarmac, recklessness

permeates the air, armadillos and dog carcasses left

to there long decomposition in the scorching

sun. lost my intreats in this rant

empty fishing pears and a long stretch of bridge

I try to ride my bike as often as possible, but certain circumstances call for the subway. Somedays I spend entire days underground. Waiting. Transfers. More waiting. Delays. Pushy people, slow walkers, complete stoppers, beggars, crazies, hoods, suits, religious talkers. The smell of urine, fish, trash. An old man stares at me. A gay man eye-fucks me. Loud school kids giggle, complain, gossip. Lovers embrace, kiss non-stop. Babies cry. A man reads the newspaper his neighbor holds. Bad music issues loudly from headphones. Faces hide behind smartphones, books, games. A fat man yells about how women ain't no good. Nobody cares.

Five o'clock— Penn Station: madhouse. 34th Street: tourist infestation. Walking up and down the same stairs all day. Losing metrocards. Standing on a platform, pacing and hot. A twenty minute wait. The train is full, every single car. One giant people sandwich. Faces angry, bored, stressed, tired, sad, fidgety. It's a lovely summer day yet there is profound silence beneath the ground, where the only sound uttered is from the trains themselves.

Then a group of three young Jamaican men play a tune for the car on a set of congas. It is a solid groove, passionately committed. People smile again. They tap their feet. Applaud, drop money into a hat. Soon, the smiles fade. Back to home, back to sleep.

My bicycle beckons.

From the archives. Mike steams a shirt all sexy like.

another great adventure with delta.

form the road side of I 10, junk left behind by

locals swimming in a murky river attempting

to escape the heat

A violent rain storm from the hotel balcony lasting 20

min before the sun returned

reed in full swing 8:30 am

me in full swing 2:30 am

Family vacation

4 of july boats and fire-works firing up the BBQ a real beer kiss ash tray night wet grass salfer fog on a clam lake, C train to disaster town rain storms of uselessness.

Or yo could just make some pictures and some one smile.

I am the King of the swingers, the jungle VIP

God are you listen

Dj FUCK YOU UP & DRUMA WING

WE COUGHT THE MOUSE