Dear Ink Coffee on Larimer,

Your November 2017 red sandwich-board
screams beyond the north Denver brick-box district:

 

Happily gentrifying the neighborhood since 2014.

 

Not many people get you, but I think I get you.

Ink, your sign is like a high-prime meme of me.
This meme is a two-part picture divided in half:
your now-famous sandwich board post at the top,
underneath, protestors outside your door with poster-boards decorated with help from Hobby Lobby.
This meme states in white caps:
WHEN YOUR SARCASM IS SO SARCASTIC PEOPLE DON’T KNOW YOU BEING SARCASTIC.

But I am picking up your sarcasm. I see what you’re doing
here.

According to Merriam-Webster on November 27th the lookup for definitions of
‘gentrification’ and ‘gentrify’
rose 2500%

This data speaks to me in two ways, Ink.
Foremost, this 2500% isn’t focusing on how your statement is really working.
They aren’t looking at the function of the word             ‘happily’

Ink, these people are taking your sign seriously—like anyone would seriously
say something like that seriously. Sarcasm, you fickle friend. I guess people
don’t like when someone jokes about how they really are. I see these haters of your sign
saying “Don’t joke about something we do seriously, here!”
Fuck those people.

Because I know it is the opposite that you are evoking. I get you’re saying not happily, rather,
you are saying unfortunately.

Unfortunately this neighborhood has been plowed down to build
condos that cost more than a house
and “eateries” with menus containing five plate items at twenty-five bucks a plate.

Unfortunately this neighborhood is turning into bougie bullshit where
one can’t get a full pound of coffee for sale, only twelve fucking ounces
and do you know how much this twelve-fucking-ounce bag of coffee costs?
A day’s worth of meals for the homeless woman across the block.

(Unfortunately the protestors didn’t mind when the homes were bulldozed over to build
the next installment of Snooze AM Eatery)

Ink, you know what has been done for you to get to River North.
You want to talk about it. Thank you for reaching out. Admittance is the first step to recovery.

And I see how people are angry at you, Ink, for focusing on the word GENTRIFICATION
because white people can’t stand
being reminded they are pushing minorities out of neighborhoods
can’t stand being blamed for the huge gap between rich and poor
can’t stand being blamed for displacement,
displacement
which has been stuck to the bottom of whatever boots
and straps Americans are always trying to fuck with,
gotta look your best while stomping down the truth–
because it’s the word GENTRIFICATION that touches the truth
hardest. That offends the upper class. It’s similar to calling someone
a racist. They will loose their fucking minds to be accused of something
so horrible, so fucking true.

GENTRIFICATION is the mirror, and, we don’t want to shine that mirror
on ourselves, we just want to know it’s there, more like on the other side of the wall,
no need to double-check
that image of ourselves.

We know it is there.

But, Ink, because of you, society is remembering what GENTRIFICATION is defined as, and whether
this is a negative or positive attribute of a city that never stops renovating. (i.e., gentrifying.)

You started a conversation across this country about a subject
that continuously is swept under the renovation rubble that looks just like the rubble in Denver’s River North area.

So, I respect you for causing a 2500% rise in the lookup of gentrification.

I respect you shining the mirror in the extremely gentrified neighborhood of River North as crass as that may be. (Sorry, River North. But not really.)

 

 

Best Regards,

A Nearby Neighbor

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Ginsberg

Ginsberg

No Miss Lonelyhearts and no Mister Right,
we are stuck at the volta, fighting void,
the best minds in generations destroyed,
Peaches and penumbras don’t scatter light.
We are peaches, all ripe with poems airtight
in our lungs to expunge, hearts not decoyed  
we sing our songs, make words more humanoid
more than our human bones, thoughts taking flight…

We are all flowers with roots to ground deep
whether it’s in sand, cast stone, or graveside,
it matters not, make matter of the reap.
Consider, you are strong against the tide,
face unangelic America, keep
remembering madness is not to hide.

 

In remembrance of Allan Ginsberg, as his birthday is soon approaching…

 

“Google Poem”

Using artificial intelligence for clip art
Revealing the new google earth

Combining food delivery home service    n
style tips

Fact-check feature rolling out
Google down?

bits of bias
Build answers

Voice search records and keeps conversations
Google is your Friend

gender pay case against google is about definition
about think with google

2 billion lines of code
Tough on sym an t c

 

 

 

*For this exercise I googled “Google Is…” and formed a poem from the headlines that came up.

Knowing the Risks

Super markets seem too convenient, these days—people used to have to go to different stores in order to collect supplies pretty much for anything that involved more than two items. The other day, I was at a super market to get my oil changed. During that forty minutes I bought bubble wrap and a snack, sat at a café and hammered out a couple of applications through the free wifi. Doing all that in one setting exhausted me for two days afterward. The possibilities are endless at super markets, maybe, but like I mentioned, they can be…too convenient.

Like for the guy I saw last night while I was, once again, at the super market collecting a rotisserie and some other goods. He was older, maybe in his seventies, but it was dusk and he was wearing a generic brown cap which covered most of his face.

I was loading the groceries into my trunk when I looked up and saw him enter an old brown car, maybe some Oldsmobile, that I did not notice was parked in the pedestrian walk by the front entrance, empty. The man approached the car with a logo-emblazoned plastic bag in each hand. He entered the car, and I went back to my groceries. Weird, but I’ve seen people do crazier things during retrogrades—or in Colorado otherwise. They say Boulder County is “inundated” by growing mental health concerns, these days.

As I slammed the trunk shut, my view went back to the man in the car, who was still sitting in the pedestrian zone about a thousand yards away from me so it was difficult to see the man, who mimed the actions of taking turns drinking and shooting something into his mouth. There weren’t too many people around as the day grew to a close, not enough people to cause a fuss about the car’s position, until he got out of the car a moment later and began to shout—

“Film me! Film me! Everyone needs to know the truth! The truth…” he half got back into the car, reaching to whatever was in the other bag, saying over and over “truth,” like some memory wandering off, but then he came back out and immediately began pouring a large plastic container of slightly yellowed liquid over himself, walking towards people a few at a time, rounding them up as an expert herder. “Everyone needs to know the truth!”

I got in my car quickly, locked the doors, but rolled the window down a crack to listen to the wet man with his arms up, a preacher in the parking lot—

“THEY TELL YOU THE FBI IS HERE TO PROTECT YOU, BUT IT’S ALL LIES.” He took out one of those lighters with the long necks, like for candles that are about to dry up, way down in the bottom of the glass jar. He tapped the little dots of flames to various portions of his clothing freshly doused, calling out, “Do not put me out!” But someone was already yelling “Call 911!” at the same time as the flames quickly spread across his limbs, a soft glow radiating in the early night, set on creating some vision for himself, some vision of turning ghost to haunt us all.

Even through the screams of onlookers I could hear him talking through his flaring face, I was living in the movies where all the plots twist, don’t make any sense anymore, and he saying, “They never let me sleep. All I’m doing is trying to make ends meet and all they’re trying to do is fuck with me! There’s nothing left when everything you try to push through pushes you back—they’re pushing me and I’m done being pushed!”

All this while, people are beginning to go after him with jackets, following the fuzzy hot monster to extinguish him, his words. I sat frozen to the scene, half knowing the ambulance would be on it’s way and in my way in a moment, half stuck in the movie reel. The fire-man slowly crept across the thru-way between the parking lot and store, occupying the space where the most people can view him, a shape of a him, rather, some shadow hanging on under a mass of reddish-orange. Those set to save him finally tackled him down, covered the flames in heavy fabrics until the smoke took its place.

I watched those same people who put the man out run to put the car out, which had also caught fire sometime during the running and ranting that I didn’t catch. About five hundred yards from the car, the coherent and smoldering man sat up and crossed his legs. One man noticed and stood near him, letting the man say without response, “I want to get my message out, tell as many people as you can, tell them my message…” until the sirens came into earshot.

The car was put out, and the cloth-wielders stood through the smoke panting as the blue and red began to illuminate the shadowed volunteers. The rest of the crowd had vanished, a few store employees stood at the doors. Even several hundred yards away, I could see how the man had no clothing left, hardly skin left on his body, third degree burns in the least, all blackened, i swear I could feel the residual heat from his body on my own skin.

I turned on my car and pulled away to the scene in my rearview mirror; EMT jumping out of the white truck with a gurney, sound of helicopter propellers incoming.