Saturday, September 10, 2011

Heard and seen at Clark Park

Somethin's wrong with y'all...
I ain't no bitch
I ain't joking
I don't joke.
Wear a flak jacket?

I'll fuck ya...
I'm telling ya.
get my shit?

I want something..
I'm alright
That ain't shit!

17-23-7, STRAIGHT!
we was 20 years old.
Who the fuck?
Get the fuck out

I'm sitting in Clark Park drinking a forty of Mickey's. There's a drum circle going on, and I'm sitting on the sidelines with my bicycle and some beer. The park antics are in full force. Guy tries to start a fight, guy tries to score drugs, guy walks around with a huge open container - a box of wine, no less.

Open container here is run of the mill. There's open smoke from a few joints as well. Order is maintained by a self-assigned few who seem to have an interest in not getting this silliness shut down. I see a man who looks official, and I start to tuck my forty into it's bag. Immediately a gesture gives me reassurance that everything is fine. The body language is clear, and I am supposed to stay and drink my beer. Good. Because it's a beautiful night, and I'm enjoying a drink on this low brick wall.

I have a notebook, and I write. The open-container antics continue and when one guy gets out of control, he's dealt with somewhere that I can't see it. In the name of keeping order. A tall man mumbled to himself and staggered aimlessly. What he said is what's printed above. The sun set, and it was time for me to head home.

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