If you're so smart, why ain't you rich?

I.





Walking outside, creaky door Saturday afternoon with the first crocus poking
through the dirt, way too soft for ground that hard but there anyway -
eating ho hos and drinking coke classic - little miniball you can actually
palm and imagine dunking with, posterizing your brother or cousin or
that kid down the way you hate to admit you want to be.

Two quarters tucked in the small fifth pocket of your jeans, which will buy
a pack of Starburst and nickel gum whose taste comes all sugary and legit
for five chews and then leaves an unforgiving rock in its wake.



II.

RE: Naivete of naivete of cynicism, or some such shit.

See joan didion in NYRB. I implore everyone to leave "Drink the Koolaid"
to books by Toure and other collections with hip-hop emphasis. Otherwise
let's move on.