If an artist’s highest purpose is to serve as a mirror for the culture and times in which they live, don’t be surprised when that artist is controversial, critical, and therefore – possibly even despised. But don’t forget; it’s not…
Category: Thoughts Out Of Season
Thoughts Out Of Season – “Photograph Is Pure Contingency” -Roland Barthes
I’m having a hard time finding photography quotes to post that I actually agree with. Most are true bullshit, like this one: “You don’t take a photograph, you make it.” -Ansel Adams Now here’s another quote with a different perspective:…
Someday, my junkie friends…
Someday, my junkie friends, when I’ve been diagnosed with cancer and the pain of death outweighs my desire for life, I’ll gladly join you in your holy rituals – I’ll joyously partake in your sacred sacraments to reach that ultimate…
A Voice
A voice. a voice floating up above the noise, above the traffic, rising, rising above the tall blue glass rising, rising higher to the antenna tops rising, rising where for all the world to see… A small young voice that…
Junkie crawl…
Junkies crawl the Green Line itching for that mainline. Jumpin’ off the Lake to take a swing around the Maypole. China White calls suburban Crackers into angry Afro villages… Dead eyes shuffle through pot-marked streets, like half-burnt vacancy signs that…
Awake Detroit!
5:33 AM September 6th, 2013 – Awake Detroit! to your smoldering sunrise… Lumber’s billowing fragrance reveals the age of this now naked city. Stray dogs sniff out the last remaining morsels, while old Irish men drink malt liquor from abandoned…
Streets of Detroit – Decay, Detroit – July, 2013
Slow Mist There was a slow mist cascading down the window glass as we quietly smoked our hookahs, dreaming of hot-tubs and white bubbles… GritStreet is all about mixing Jazz, Prose, Photography, and Politics. GritStreet – more than just taking…
Talkers’ Park
Talkers’ Park: Talkers’ park comes alive in the early dawn as muttering misfits arise from dewy grasses. Pavement pranksters begin pacing like frantic phantoms, while frosted afros perch themselves wearily along Sandburg’s wall of odes. Sorrow cascades down their worn…