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Wednesday, September 20, 2006
back on the block
To bring me out of retirement, several things... 1) the shirts are in. Check the shop. Get your Gentrification on. 2)
Just when you thought I was the most vitriolic person alive, someone ELSE had to call Bush the Devil IN FRONT OF THE U.N.
(I am appropriately humbled). 3) Check out this website. I didn't make it, but I think I should have. click me
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Homeward Bound
Ivy Leagro has returned to the place of our genesis--sunny Providence, Rhode Island. It is reunion time after all and despite protestations to the contrary during sophomore year, we have become soft, cream-filled,
nostalgia-monsters. Check the local section for the newest updates. Also, the Gentrification Brothers Moving Co. T-shirts  are on the way from our supplier. Order online in the next couple of days. Lastly, while watching re-runs of a middle
school favorite, my one true love has been rekindled. Lisa Turtle, this one's for you. 
Monday, May 15, 2006
Kicking and screaming
The Fascists continue.
Not only is it okay to spy on the entire country without just cause, it is apparently NOT okay to question it.
Invoking the state secrets rule, the Feds are effectively limiting any chance a judge may have to hear the case.
I got the story in Wired. Check it out for yourself.
Heil, USA.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Boy, I need to lay off the Red Bull
Okay, so the last post was a bit vitriolic, but true. And just as I was calming myself down, Bush had to go put the Nat'l
Guard on Boarder Patrol.
this is just sad, sick stuff.
Okay, I'm through. Don't forget to give Mom a call.
12:13 pm edt
Friday, May 12, 2006
Ya get all that?
I have been saying this for at least three years now. I have been hearing clicks and echos and all sorts of weird
shit on my cell.
The Feds tappin' my phone, Ya get all that?
People thought I was crazy, now it's all in the news. Why do I have to be right all the time? Especially
about the spooky terrible stuff.
So, it's official. I hate our government. They're tappin my phone, my email, my website, and now that you're
reading this, they're on to you too.
So, Fuck 'em. these bastards need not only to be impeached, but arrested. This shit is illegal, unconstitutional
and un-American. Get Mad. Tell somebody. This is bullshit and we should not take this.
Dear Feds,
As you continue to invade my privacy and trample my rights, I want you to take detailed notes on how perverted and sad
you have made a once-wonerful government. I want you to know that the only thing I am guilty of is not having motivated
the vote against you even more vehemently during the last election.
I will not make the same mistake again.
sincerly,
Greezy
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2006.09.01 |
2006.05.01 |
2006.04.01 |
2006.03.01 |
2006.02.01 |
2006.01.01
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Because Poetry is cool...
Reading in Place
Imagine a poem that starts with a couple
Looking into a valley, seeing their house, the lawn
Out back with its wooden chairs, its shady patches of green,
Its wooden fence, and beyond the fence the rippled silver sheen
Of the local pond, its far side a tangle of sumac, crimson
In the fading light. Now imagine somebody reading the poem
And thinking, "I never guessed it would be like this,"
Then slipping it into the back of a book while the oblivious
Couple, feeling nothing is lost, not even the white
Streak of a flicker's tail that catches their eye, nor the slight
Toss of leaves in the wind, shift their gaze to the wooded dome
Of a nearby hill where the violet spread of dusk begins,
But the reader, out for a stroll in the autumn night, with all
The imprisoned sounds of nature dying around him, forgets
Not only the poem, but where he is, and thinks instead
Of a bleak Venetian mirror that hangs in a hall
By a curving stair, and how the stars in the sky's black glass
Sink down and the sea heaves them ashore like foam.
So much adrift in the ever-opening rooms of elsewhere,
He cannot remember whose house it was, or when he was there.
Now imagine he sits years later under a lamp
And pulls a book from the shelf; the poem drops
To his lap. The couple are crossing a field
On their way home, still feeling that nothing is lost,
That they will continue to live harm-free, sealed
In the twilight's amber weather. But how will the reader know,
Especially now that he puts the poem, without looking,
Back in the book, the book where a poet stares at the sky
And says to a blank page, "Where, where in Heaven am I?"
Mark Strand
Be our Friendster.
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