A Friend of Kaze War. Nothing More.

•Wakening All Receptors•

November 24, 2013… Scarlet Shangri-la (A Repost)

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                           (Snapshot by the Mind of Kaze War)

                                                  Exiting.

                                          Leaving this state. 

Crossing the threshold, entering Scarlet Shangri-la, I was greeted by trees. Amber leaves bloomed from robust branches. The breeze scattered them. Afloat, in the air their last moments of life spent before delicately resting in peace on the ground. Lush fields of crimson grass abundantly fleshed out the horizon. A maroon stream divorced the landscape. Subtly. Light glistened off its shell as the current serenely flowed downstream. 
 
This light emanated from no sun. It was all encompassing without a definite source. My mask was aglow. The Supreme cap I wore turned crimson. I looked down and saw the black hooded sweatshirt billow away from my body as light passed through the cotton, illuminating my being.
 
All I have to show are these words and this picture. 

Saturday, January 18, 2014…Weston’s Wizardry, the Uncanny Chino BYI, and the Great James TOP.

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  My friend and good partner of Kaze War, Lions BF, sent me a text message last night including a link that led to a site selling tickets for a screening of Video Graf at Nitehawk Cinemas in Williamsburg. After a bit of contemplation on whether I should pay for the ticket online or at the venue I chose the former and used my Paypal card for the purchase. In the morning Lions sent a text explaining how he fell asleep and tried to buy his ticket when he awakened just to find that the venue had sold out. 
  I’d really wanted to see Lions but it was cool. I worked all day relieving my inventory of several cartons of cigarettes that I’d purchased over the weekend off of a young dude from Long Island who worked at a wholesale warehouse. Every once in a while a couple hundred cartons and an invoice would magically disappear from a truckload and, almost out of thin air, reappear at my apartment to be resold to street level vendors. Some of my customers are guys who sell packs and loose cigarettes as they maintain a low profile amidst the shadows of doorways in Midtown. In New York these dudes are always around, lurking in crowds, dipping in and out of the ‘hoods crevices to make a sale then back to blending in with everyone else. They usually only keep a couple of packs in their possession in case the cops blitz. That way they could say the cigarettes are for their personal use and not for sale. The rest of their cache they stash until a customer requests an order larger than what they have on their person; usually their stashes are with vendors that sell hats, scarves, CDs, etc. - stuff that’s legal to peddle. Sometimes these hustlers have security guards and doormen on the payroll, too. The cigarette business is a big deal in NY. Several years ago the laws changed, modifying the penalties for arrested cigarette sellers. Shit, my boy, an old, bum-legged ex-heroin addict named LL (short for Limpin’ Larry), cleaned himself up after spending 28 days in a detox program then started and maintained a cigarette operation that spanned 6 states. He stacked long paper in short time - enough to buy three cars, two primarily for transporting goods across state borders and one sweet Cadillac that he used to pick up women. The streets gave him his third nickname so after Limpin’ Larry came LL and after LL he was rightfully known as Pimpin’ Limpin’ the Cadillac King of the Dopefiends. Okay, the “Cadillac King of the Dopefiends” part I just made up but he really was Pimpin’ Limpin’. Ask anybody, he even had custom embroidered headrests that read the same. Anyway, after accumulating thousands of dollars and two more baby mommas LL was arrested and sentenced to do a two to four year bid upstate under the modified stipulations. Three days after his arrest I heard through the grapevine that he was sniffing dope again. I guess all of the thousands he’d saved are now being used for commissary, a lawyer, and a habit to inhale as much powder as he could cop off the jailhouse drug smugglers.
  I met with Sabe KST for a bite at a Senegalese buffet in midtown. As scores of Muslim cab drivers sat amongst us we spoke of business and travel. The pungent aroma abound didn’t only come from the spices in the food but also from the cubby that filled with patrons shoes as they readied for salah upstairs in a room padded with a rug so the men won’t have to put their foreheads on the floor when bowing to their lord.
  The devotion they have to their religion is admirable. They watched our movements, subtly scrutinized our outfits, and eavesdropped on our conversation while trying to gauge if we were muslim so we could be greeted with sincere salaam alaikum’s.
  After parting with Sabe I headed to the theater. As soon as I walked upstairs I saw the director and creator of Video Graf, Carl Weston, standing behind his merchandise table speaking to Chino BYI. I know Carl personally but Chino is Kaze’s old pal. Kaze always spoke highly of him whenever his name was mentioned. Kaze met Chino in the early ’90s and they’d frequently see one another around the city. Back then Chino had a welcoming yet subtly menacing disposition and Kaze told me about his - according to graffiti lore - impressive knuckle game but also emphasized how mild mannered and well spoken he is and always had been. After speaking with Carl for awhile I ran into the founders of two infamous NYC crews - Doms KOC, and Rast RFC - and another one of Kaze’s friends from Harlem, Cams, then made my way into a packed theater to watch the screening. 
  Doms sat directly behind me and I imagined his euphoria while watching himself on the big screen displaying a plethora of styles on walls and gates while walking NYC’s gritty mid-1990s streets. A lot of the newer cats on the scene don’t know much about Doms but he laid the framework for many writers. He influenced kings of creation (ahem, K.O.C) like Shaun RFC, traded styles with Stem YNN, and got busy with Cally from Brooklyn while enrolled in the arts program at Washington Irving High School on 17th St. It’s even documented that Doms showed Barry McGee, better known to the graffiti underworld as Twist, the ropes when he first came to NYC. 
  Being that the school was downtown Washington Irving was a hub for students who lived in all five boroughs so a variety of graffiti writers attended it. I was thrilled to see some old comrades of Kaze and I on the screen as they bombed the train tracks with outlines and fill-ins, arousing nostalgic pangs in my mind as I once again yearned to be an active part of the graffiti culture.
  When the movie ended, Carl and Sacha Jenkins, editor of several graffiti-based publications and longtime friend and collaborator, sat in front of the audience for a q&a session. I learned the backstory detailing the inception of Video Graf and gained insight encompassing the interactions with a few of the graffiti kings that were showcased in the series. We found out how terrified Carl was to be in a car with JA as they sped along the highway at nearly 100 mph while en route to bomb train platforms and eventually record JA spray paint on the glass of a token booth as the clerk helplessly watched. I heard how Carl and Sacha played an integral role in bringing Cost and Revs together. Several stories were told about Henry Chalfant and his early involvement in Video Graf, including how he purchased over $60,000 of video production equipment and gave Carl the green light to do whatever he pleased with it, proving to be instrumental in the genesis of the groundbreaking project. 
  When the theater emptied several souls congregated in the lobby to catch up on old times, draw in one another’s sketchbooks, and speak on the impact of the Video Graf series. I had the opportunity to converse with Chino after I introduced myself as Kaze’s close friend. He candidly spoke of his time at The Source magazine - a time when no other major publications considered featuring a graffiti based column he convinced the editors of graffiti’s importance in the hip-hop genre. Graffiti is one of the core components of hip-hop along with breakdancing, DJing, MCing, and the universal spirit that breathes through these expressions. The magazine was globally distributed and the graffiti featured on those pages eventually made it into the hands of young artists who didn’t have the privilege of witnessing the murals, trains, and straight letter images of art in person.
  We traded stories about how incarcerated artists used the page as inspiration to create. While I was in prison, as a teenager, I looked at the artwork and imagined myself walking through the streets and stumbling upon the pieces as I’d done when I was a bit younger. We would roam looking for new tags and pieces. I would do this with Kaze, too. We were the original members of the War Squad besides the Brooklyn and Houston comrades. There was Kaze, Kraze, Spy, Gloc, Crim, Buck and several others from the east and west sides of Harlem.
  We’d usually wander to the Bronx to see new artwork. Often we’d bump into well known artists at different stages in the development of their masterpieces. We’d run into Stak TFP sketching, Camp, Shame 125, or Reas AOK putting the finishing touches on characters. We’d even bumped into Sento TFP a few times as he applied obscure colors and patterns that juxtaposed one another. Twice we ran into Kaze War’s favorite at the time - West FC. One time he was painting a mural with Cope 2, TKid, and a few others when Cope tried to convince Kaze to change his name because the legendary Kaze FBA already had it. He suggested Kaze2 but rescinded because of Kase 2. Finally he settled on Kaze3 being adequate. 
  I remember later that night we went back to Kaze’s home and I looked at a piece of paper he was doodling on and saw him practicing Kaze2 and Kaze3 tags. Several days later I asked Kaze about it and he said he’d scrapped the idea and was to continue writing Kaze but distinguishing himself from the others by being Kaze War. 
  When Kaze created his tag he wasn’t aware of other dudes that may have already had the same name so it surprised him to found out someone else was named Kaze because he combined two previous names to form Kaze. He’d been writing Kain and Glaze simultaneously before he merged the two by taking the K and A from Kain and fusing it with the last three letters of Glaze. Being raised in the housing projects of New York City a lot of the older cats had tags and a select few perfected their craft while also maintaining their status in the hood as thugs and drug dealers. It was pretty dope to us young dudes - we looked up to these guys because they were the heroes in our neighborhood. We hardly saw them doing anything morally wrong.  I know it sounds weird as fuck but dealers kept us safe from unruly addicts and people from other neighborhoods who had beef with our projects. Now that I’m older I see the long term effects of their dealings but back then it was cool because the hoodlums provided ways for people to provide for their families. 
  Heading home I boarded the Church Avenue bound G train. Getting off at Hoyt-Schermerhorn I walked towards the front of the platform and bumped into good ol’ James TOP. 
  “What’s up, James,” I reluctantly exclaimed. 
  Reluctantly was an understatement. I would’ve turned around and went the opposite direction if he hadn’t seen me. James knew I was one of Kaze’s right hand men and I’m not sure what he thought his status with Kaze was at the moment due to an early altercation at the RSVP pre-opening of the Writes of Passage exhibit. 
  The night of Writes of Passage was fantastic. Movers and shakers of the graffiti world were moving and shaking amongst the crowd. Kaze and I were with the Dethkult crew, Cinik, and for awhile, the homie Pixote. On the sidewalk after the event we bumped into James TOP. Clearly intoxicated, standing as if he was leaning on an invisible wall, we simultaneously noticed one another. 
  Kaze shouted him out, “James!”
  James, drink in hand even though we were outside of the venue, said, “hey, man - hold up, where’s your fucking camera? GO AND GET YOUR MOTHAFUCKING CAMERA!”
  Now here’s where we had a Scorsese moment. In the movie “Good Fellas” there was a scene depicting a coming-home celebration for Billy Batts that had taken place at a bar owned by Robert Deniro’s character, Jimmy Conway. As the night winded down Billy Batts asked Joe Pesci’s character, Tommy, why he wasn’t showing him the love he thought he deserved. Billy remembered how Tommy used to shine shoes before his stint in prison. Tommy, offended by the shoe shining reference and proud of the gangster he’d become, told Billy he wasn’t shining shoes anymore. Billy then, after a short monologue, told Tommy to “GO AND GET HIS FUCKIN’ SHINE BOX!” Prompting Tommy and the boys to beat Billy to death. 
  So, Kaze, never missing a beat, immediately retorted, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING TO MOTHERFUCKER? Don’t fucking talk to me like that, James. I don’t play that shit. We ain’t that cool for you to be talking to me like that.”
  Startled, James tried to smooth it out, “Nah, K. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant -“
  “I don’t care what you meant,” Kaze snarled, finger poking at the air. “I don’t disrespect you when I speak and I refuse to accept disrespect from you. We don’t fucking talk to one another like that. Especially with all of these people around…”
  I didn’t think James expected Kaze’s reaction. I also didn’t believe James’ words had malicious intent  - he’d had too many drinks and his discretion was a little off. Still, knowing Kaze I knew he wouldn’t let a turd slide down the toilet without it knowing and respecting that it came from his asscrack. 
  James extended his hand while explaining what he meant. It was a monumental night. Kaze should’ve had his camera to document it. Whatever. Kaze accepted the handshake and repeated his sentiments. He really doesn’t play those types of games, though. Kaze is cool but he likes to be respected and he respects others in return It was pretty funny afterwards, though.
  So I didn’t exactly want to see James. He couldn’t do shit to me, per se - I’m scared of no man - I just didn’t feel like hearing his spiel. 
  “Josh, what’s up, man? Come over here, lil’ brother,” he happily said. The distinct lean was visible even though he was seated. Behind him was an Asian girl and three seats to the left of him sat a guy who I would later know as “Preme”. 
  I sat. Being that I was still hyped from the event it felt kinda good to bump into him. I told him I was just with Doms, he ignored it. “Well, I’m with Preme,” he arrogantly stated. 
  “I was just with Doms and ‘em,” I repeated.
  “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m with Preme.” The smug look on his face let me know that he wanted to make it clear that he didn’t care if I had seen Doms or not.
  “You know who Preme is, right?”
  Hell no I didn’t know who Preme was but I said I did. Shit, sometimes you gotta keep the conversation moving, you know? At that moment I remembered that James and Doms fell out of good terms. Maybe it was over a canvas. I’m not sure of the reason bend their dispute but I’m absolutely sure of it being the reason why he kept blowing me off whenever I mentioned Doms name. We kicked it. He had a few jewels to drop. I listened while picking his brain. I asked him how he’s able to coordinate so many shows and events. 
  “Josh, man,” he paused and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. The liquor definitely was hitting him. His left hand held a soda bottle and I wondered if that was really Pineapple Sunkist - wait, do they still make Pineapple Sunkist? Whatever. 
  “I’m just claiming - capitalizing off what’s rightfully ours,” he looked at my Supreme hat, “Supreme, Supra - all of these brands wouldn’t be shit without us. We originated this shit so it’s only right for me to capitalize off of it.”
  As I listened the atmosphere changed. Everything seemed to warp in front of my eyes. It felt like we were still at Hoyt-Schermerhorn but in the ’80s. I envisioned the GG train roaring into the station. wheels screeching on the rails like a lady in a ’70s horror flick. The girl seated to the back of us had to be a New York transplant because she pulled out a cigarette and lighter, flicked the Bic three times before sparking a flame, lit her cig and smoked it as casually as a person who’s oblivious to the fact that there’s a transit precinct less than twenty yards away. She could’ve easily ended up in jail. Wait, no, I could’ve easily ended up in jail if I lit a cigarette on the platform. Not her, she was a cute, innocent girl who wasn’t from here. The cops probably would’ve asked for her phone number and took her on a date or something. Preme raised his head for a split second and looked at her in disbelief before dozing off again.
  James was still talking and he looked the same. He didn’t look like the young, svelte James that used to tag Jee 2 on the GG or A trains. He looked like 2014 James TOP in the flesh. The legendary dude who holds his own weight while pushing the genre forward through community programs and all of that other good shit.
  “See, every black man in New York City who’s from New York City should know who James Top is and if they don’t they should be trying to find out because I am one of the pioneers of this thing, this culture, this hip-hop genre. Graffiti, breakdancing, rapping - it all goes together, Josh,” he said while looking at me. He seemed miraculously sober for the moment. He was serious. Passionate…concerned about how I would process this information. 
  “So I’ve gotta keep going and keep myself relevant for all of the people but especially us blacks and latinos because,” he paused, deadpan, before pointing a large index finger at my chest, “YOU will be ME.”
  He continued to talk but those four words resonated in my head. They were the truth. I may still have all of my teeth and won’t be sitting there waiting for the A train with a Sunkist bottle filled with liquor but at the end of the day, when the water boils to steam and the pot slowly burns, I will be where he is. I will be 50 years old, still hustling creating a way to survive on this planet. You know the saying: the players change but the game remains the same. 
  The alert notified us of the incoming A train. The rumbles of the steel behemoth followed. I stop up and James gave me a pound, “Alright, Josh,” I pulled him to his feet and told him that it was his train, too. It had to be. I’d exited the G train and only the G, A, and C trains stopped at that platform and the C and A were both running local. We entered the train quickly. The Asian girl came too. Her cigarette was a memory. James was pretty light on his feet for a big guy as he diddy-bopped to a seat before the trains doors closed.
  “Kick a beat,” Preme ignored him before nodding off to sleep again, “kick a beat, man. Kick a beat.” I hadn’t dropped a beat in a long time but it’s not something alien to me. I started a simple boom-bap-boom-baboom-bap with my knuckles on the orange seat adjacent to mine and James TOP was in rare vintage form as he freestyled a verse. Breaking my concentration on the beat I looked up and saw the cigarette smoker looking at James, smiling endearingly as she appreciated the moment. Shit, the grin on my face was wide as the train itself. It was surreal. My stop came quickly and the train jerked to a halt. I shook his and Preme’s hands and headed out the train as James expressed how pleased he was to see me. I told him I’d be going to his next show and reciprocated his sentiments. 
  Looking back as the train sat at the station I shouted, “always a pleasure to see you, James. I love you, man!” 
  “I love you, too, blackman,” he yelled.
  “I’m going to tell Kaze that I saw you, too. He always talks highly of you,” I was walking up the stairs now, “he loves you too, bro.”
  “Tell Kaze I’ve always loved him too,” the doors began to close. A few steps from the top I heard James scream, “EVEN WHEN HE DIDN’T LIKE MEEEEEEEEEEEE…”
  The train doors closed but I’d still heard him as he carried the end of the last word like a subway crooner trying his best to carry a note. I paused and laughed. James sold himself to me. I bought it. I had to - after all, we are one and the same. Reaching the landing I walked towards the exit as I shook my head. I thought James had forgotten about the altercation but he didn’t. That showed me a reason why he’s still around. He’s humble. He’s learned from his journey. Alcohol is cool. We all like to have a good time and everyones vice is different. Just because he’d been tipsy a few times doesn’t take anything away from his legacy. He’s here and he’s not going anywhere due to hard work and perseverance.
  That’s why he’s still on TOP.
  

danielonenyc said: hey are you same Kaze War who painted with Dux DDS, Foner MOT, Rath DDS back in the days ?!

Yes, that’s me. Rest in peace to Foner, Masters of Tagging. Dux and Rath are my boys although I havent seen either of those lads in years!

Friday, September 20, 2013… Subway to the Penthouse

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                                (Snapshot by the Mind of Kaze War)

  Early Friday I ran my errands then headed home to prepare for the party. For the past three days my vivid daydreams of meeting a girl at Kaze’s party filled the womanless void that engulfed me daily.
  Thursday I cleaned the common areas of the apartment just in case I got lucky enough to bring someone home. The sheets smelled of fabreze. Dirty clothes were placed in the hamper and the rest filled three large garbage bags so I hid two under the kitchen sink and the last one in the hall closet. In every room a stick of nag champa was burned. After giving it a quick inspection and checking myself out in the mirror I deemed the place, and my attire, acceptable.
  Walking down the steps I heard the voice of my upstairs neighbor talking on a cellphone as she walked up. We approached one another at the second floor landing and she passed without taking a glance in my direction so I stifled the hello that I usually say although she always ignores me. She was arguing with someone, something about her waiting somewhere for an hour and a half. 
  “Fucking asshole,” she screamed from one of the upper landings. Im not sure if she was speaking to me or whoever she argued with on the other end of her phone. As I opened the door leading out of the building I saw a short, curvy latina beating at the chest of her boyfriend.
  “…fucking asshole. That’s what you are, an ungrateful, fucking asshole.” 
  I barely dodged her next swing as I passed them on the narrow sidewalk. Boarding the G train I sat at the middle of the cart to ensure a vantage point so I could be entertained by observing people. Life is so interesting - what people wear, the things we say; the way a dude might tap his foot to a tune playing in his mind or a girl may twirl a lock of hair between her fingers every other minute as she reads a novel. I’m fascinated by our energy as individuals and intrigued by how much synergy we create as we share space. A few feet away a young woman in her early twenties nestled beneath her boyfriends embrace. Her striking blonde hair harshly contrasted the dark shades she wore and her crossed legs brought notice to the grey duct tape that wrapped the tip of her stylishly shabby black combat boot. I admired her sense of style and thought of how much fun they probably have together. Free - yet enjoying moments together. Companionship is dope - fuck what people say. Most people say they’re good all by themselves but are lonely and miserable motherfuckas behind closed doors. That’s a fact. It’s true - life may be a bit easier and stress-free if you don’t have a mate to bicker with but the joy that comes with finding the right one and spending quality time with them is priceless.
  Transferring to the A train a group of teenagers entered behind me. They were loud and playfully calling one another names and accentuated every other sentence with artful uses of the word nigga.
  I looked up from my seat and noticed they were white. 
 ”Suck my dick,” a short one wearing a backwards baseball cap said to a slightly taller, pallid kid holding a skateboard. 
 ”Hey, chill,” said one to the group, “Have some respect, man. We’re around all of these people and we’re being rude. Have some respect for them or at least have more respect for yourself.” 
  The dick invitations stopped but referring to themselves as niggas ensued. Noone else seemed to mind or pay attention. The word has been used so frequently it hardly has bite for its teeth have been dulled by rap music, pop culture, and urban kids across America who grow up hearing it so often they find the coolness of it much more alluring than the degrading connotations surrounding it. 
  Looking at other passengers to satisfy my desire for someones reaction I saw nothing but unconcern on their faces as they gazed, zombie-like, into their mobile devices. I thought back to my younger days when I would’ve jumped from my seat and stepped to all five or six of them. They might’ve kicked my ass but I would’ve done it to show that everything isn’t acceptable in this world; that you can’t simply say whatever you want and think you’re exempt from feeling the repercussions.
  For a moment I became those thoughts; I was a fearless teen again. Back in the ’90s and shit. Drinking forties and smoking blunts in the back cart of the train. Back when New Yorkers wouldn’t ride in the back cart because it was too dangerous. Boom boxes blaring, not giving a fuck if you liked what music we were playing - shit, we liked it and if you dared to say something about it this radio could easily be used as a weapon to crack your fucking skull. The window of my throwback fantasy shattered once I looked down and saw my 34 year old pot belly. A far cry from my toned - don’t laugh - abs that I got while doing martial arts as a kid. It didn’t disturb me when I heard the boys cursing and using the n word. Shit, I’m hip to the phenomena of hip-hop cultures transcendence of racial barriers. The weirdness of the other riders noncommittal unresponsiveness was more interesting.
  A bespectacled black man, light complected and dressed immaculately in a grey suit, stood to the left of them. His white shirt and ice blue tie accentuated the silver hairs of his beard. I’d noticed him before they’d arrived and even as they stood around him causing a ruckus he remained totally immersed in his New York Times/Wall Street Journal/USA Today type of newspaper. It was the kind of paper that unfolds so enormously you’d think it was a map or something. I shifted my eyes from the kids to the man just in time to see him shift his eyes from the newspaper to them. First he glanced apathetically then his eyes zeroed in on the crew. He probably thought, upon first listen, that the kids were black. I watched as his eyes widened, squinted, then widened again as he went from being annoyed to growing furious in a matter of moments. He furrowed his brow and eyed each one of them conspicuously. I doubt any of the boys acknowledged him standing there. I suppose he thought of the days when it was totally out of line for a white person to use the word nigger.
  Their presence echoed even after they exited at West 4th Street. Getting off at the next station I emerged from the stairway and was met by yellow cab traffic heading towards the Friday night fuckery of the Meatpacking District. Back in the 90’s the district was full of warehouse-sized meat boutiques where one had to pass through dingy plastic flaps hanging from the ceiling to enter refrigerated rooms of packaged flesh on shelves or hooks above slippery floors navigated by shoppers and brawny men wearing white coats, aprons, and smocks smeared with the blood of your favorite tasting mammal. Every doorway in the neighborhood led to a similar scene, a strong remnant of the days when the elevated railway of 9th Avenue transported flesh to and from the area. It was a period before Chelsea Piers was synonymous with a bowling alley, sports complex or place to meet your date and smoke a joint as the sun meets the horizon. 
  Navigating through crowds of people traipsing the sidewalks in a drunken daze I arrive at Kaze’s front door. When I rang the doorbell a woman’s face appeared, mask covering her forehead to the bridge of her nose, on a monitor above the intercom panel and asked ‘who the fuck’ I was. 
  “Yashua.”
 The screen went blank as I was buzzed into the building. Stepping inside the brushed stainless steel elevator I pressed the button for the top floor then turned to face the door as it closed. A subtle jazz tune soothed my ascent until the bass of a rap song overpowered Marsalis and sent tremors through my body. The elevator slowed and stopped before opening to the saccharine scent of joss sticks burning. I stepped into darkness and soon felt bodies dancing to the rhythm. Brushing past women I kept my eye out for Kaze. Someone passed me a drink. Near full glass. Tequila. Or Devils Springs. I sipped from the same spot someones lipstick stained. Sweet. The drink was stolen from my grasp as sudden as it was placed there. The candied scent of perfumed perspiration teased my senses as someone pulled close to me. A woman, completely nude, placed her small, beautifully shaped breasts against my chest. Her left arm wrapped around my waist, resting her palm on my lower back as her right hand gently cupped and stroked the back of my head. Whispering a distinct, indecipherable language into my ear I latched onto her as another woman snuggled behind her and nibbled on her ear. Another drink was placed in my hand. It was warm but I couldn’t see it because my hands were wrapped around both of their bodies. The stickiness of the warm liquid as it spilled from the glass onto my fingers and their torsos when our bodies swayed only aided in gluing us together for the moment.  
  I drank. Their bodies were dressed in sweat. Nothing else. Pulling away from them i looked around and began to realize there were no men at this party. Everyone was nude. I blinked once. 
  Slowly. 
  My eyes closed then opened. Vision blurred, I blinked again. Clarity confirmed the feminine bodies, masked, all of similar height and weight, dancing seductively amidst the lithe wisps of smoke and brief flickers of white light that came and went every moment or so, enabling brief views of my surroundings.
  Reluctantly breaking free of their grasp I made my way through the crowd trying to find Kaze. Girls everywhere relentlessly touched one another. Their movements dreamlike. Every second, third, fourth person I passed I took another sip and every second, third, or fourth person I saw became blurrier. I swam further through the sea of women until I felt myself drowning in their expansive beauty. I was moving but not upright. The tempo of the music slowed. As the beat crawled into my eardrums I found myself crawling on the ground. Somehow. Moments passed at a snails pace as black shoes danced inches from my hands. I crawled forward as supple calves and thighs whirled in front of me, dizzying me more. Two hands grabbed my shoulders from behind and effortlessly swept me off the ground. I turned around and saw Kaze standing there. His mask, twisted in a perpetual smile, jeered at my confusion before I felt his palm strike my face so hard it jolted my senses. 
  “Welcome, friend,” handing me a glass of water he continued, “I’m pleased that you made it to the festivities.”
  I drank from the glass and immediately felt better. “What happened,” I asked as he stared at me, seemingly oblivious to the women’s hands that were exploring his bare chest as he stood in front of me. 
  “You’re good! How do you feel?” 
  Taking a moment to gauge how I felt I dubiously responded, “I feel great. Like, amazing. But, wasn’t I just on the floor? Did I pass out? What happened?”
  “Yashua,” his voice was calm yet the ubiquitous strength was there, “How do you feel?”
  “It feels… It feels like every inch of my body is alive with electricity.”
  “Okaaay…” he coaxed.
  “I feel like I’m floating on a cloud…like, like what is…”
  “Don’t question ecstasy,” he interrupted, “Embrace it.”
  The music entranced me. Kaze was there, in front of me, I’m sure, but I no longer saw him. My sense of touch overwhelmed my vision when someone began to suck the nape of my neck while another’s hand traveled under and up my shirt and caressed my chest. We moved with the current like leaves floating along a rivers crest before finding myself being nudged towards a sofa. Sprawled were our bodies as we drank-smoked-touched our way to relaxation. 
  Light interrupted obscurity. I turned towards its direction and saw Kaze seated on an elaborately crafted chair. A woman, arms draped around his neck and shoulders, stood behind him and slowly dragged her fingernails up his relaxed torso. I imagined his face behind the mask. Smug? Maybe. Smiling? No. He’s probably emotionless - bored even. A replica of this scene could be willed into existence any day he chooses. That’s what Kaze says - he has the power to will anything into existence. I’ve witnessed it - he does. 
  Four hands explored my body while I laid my head back and conjured up fantasies of myself sitting on the throne. Next to Kaze, on my own elaborately crafted seat, not all the way over here. I’m sure those women were beautiful but that one - the one on Kaze - possessed beauty unparalleled. 
  I inhaled exotic smoke from a joint before letting someone slip it from my grasp as my mind spiraled down a vortex of sensuous elation. Something was in those drinks. I’m sure of it. I sipped from a glass that was placed at my lips before sinking into blackness.
  Relentless sunlight begged my eyelids to open. Giving in, I opened them - squinting as they adjusted to the brightness. Looking around I saw women everywhere, their sleeping forms strewn across the floor. Perched atop a counter in the kitchen way across the room was Kaze. It was around 8am. I know because Kaze always reads his newspaper at 8am and he was reading it then. 
  I stood with ease - no hangover or lingering effect from the herb. Walking towards him I sidestepped and tiptoed through the erotic obstacle course of beautiful women. I reached him but didn’t interrupt his reading. He wouldn’t have acknowledged me anyway. He likes to read entire articles without any breaks so I silently hoped he hadn’t just begun reading a 2000 word editorial. Folding the newspaper abruptly before dropping it to the floor he hopped off the counter and offered his hand. 
  “Yashua, I’m glad that you made it,” he sounded as if he were smiling, according to the mask he was but I really couldn’t tell. Maybe. 
  Gesturing to the ladies on the floor, chairs, and any other surface sturdy enough to carry their bodies, “I needed this. I needed this release, kid. You know, being around all of this. The women. You. It was dope, homie.”
  His head tilted incredulously, “Whaddya mean you ‘needed this release’? What about the women?” He turned and walked. I followed him into another room, sparsely furnished with an oversized bed against the westernmost wall. Strangely, Patience, his long-term girlfriend that accompanied him to the Halloween party, was resting peacefully amidst a billow of white sheets. I now noticed by her toned arms that she was who stood behind Kaze as he sat on the chair last night.
  “Yep, she’s still around,” he said, referring to her after seeing my lingering gaze. “Now tell me about this release of yours.”
  “Well, it’s been a long time, homie -“
  “Since?”
  “Let me finish, man,” I sat down in an immense office chair parked in front of a desk and swiveled clockwise towards a window that faced the rising sun above an eastern view of lower Manhattan. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been around that type of energy. The sexuality. That raw sexuality. It’s just been awhile…”
  “You mean, since Diana,” his tone held no judgement yet a sensitive impulse from hearing Diana’s name almost made me react as if he held a gavel and wore a black robe.
  “Yeah,” I whispered. Stifling my anger; confused if it was towards her for not being here or towards Kaze for mentioning her I continued, “Yeah, Kay. It hasn’t been the same.”
  “Well, it’s not going to be the same, Yashua. It’ll never be the same. You won’t get those moments back. You may have similar moments but -“
  “I know, Kay,” I interjected as my anger resurfaced. Was I angry at him for bringing it up or was I really the one who brought it up? 
  “You know but do you really know? Life continues,” his voice was serenely convincing. I wondered if, sometimes, he slept wearing that damned mask. He went on, “I think, in those situations it’s best for us to work on ourselves. To work on what we can do to make ourselves more viable.”
  “That’s easy for you to say,” I tasted a tear as I spoke, oblivious to it dropping from my eye as I watched the rooftops glisten from the suns rays, “You’ve got everything. You have a woman, and if you didn’t have her you’d have another one, or two. You have money. You got it all, man. What do I have?”
  “You’ve got you,” his voice grew firm, “You have you and that’s all that you need. I believed that I could acquire everything that I own way before I stepped foot in any of these high end bullshit boutiques in this high end bullshit bourgeois neighborhood. I used to go into the stores around the corner and they begged me to leave. Now, Josh, they beg me to stay but it all means nothing if you don’t believe, kid. All that you need is you, man,” his hand grasped my shoulder, “You’ve gotta get over her. You’ve gotta continue to reach within yourself for the power that you need to propel you further.” 
  I spun the chair towards him, “I know, man. I know.” 
  “Besides,” he offered a hand to help me to my feet, “You remember what DMX said, right? ‘If you love something, let it go, if it comes back to you it’s yours, if it doesn’t…’”
  “’…it never was,’” I followed him out of the room, “By the way - I think DMX got that from someone else.”
  “Yeah, but X immortalized it and that’s what counts,” opening the door for me to leave, “Open yourself to light, Yashua. You’ve been in the dark for too long. Let’s hang out more.”
  “Sure, bro. One more thing,” I turned towards him, gave him a firm handshake and half hug before asking, “What the hell was in those drinks, Kaze?”
  “Oh, they call it molly. I forgot that you didn’t get an RSVP email for the event. It was a Molly Masquerade. Shit, that’s why everyone is knocked out. You were resting for a whole 24 hours, Josh. It’s Sunday. We partied without you the whole Saturday. Get some rest. Hit me up later.”
  The door slammed and I was in a staircase. I walked down to the lobby. Exiting the building I was almost blinded by the light. The sunlight. The light Kaze spoke about - it’ll take some time for me to acquire that. 
  Whatever it is.
  

Tuesday, September 17, 2013… Kaze, It’s Been a While.

 ”Kaze! How’ve you been?” My jubilant handshake-hug couldn’t express my joy when our chests met.  His hand patting my back wasn’t unlike a bears paw patting a rabbit.
  “I’m doing well, friend! Long time no see.”  
   His smile was a bridge of pearly whites that span his golden face. The facial hair of his mustache and goatee framed a contemporary portrait of his mouth.
  “Why’re you looking at my lips like that?” Brushing his mouth with his hand, ” do you see any crumbs there? I was just eating a spring roll.”
  “Nah. I was just um - forget it. How’s everything with you, bro? I’ve been seeing your tag a lot lately,” gesturing to the wall behind him where a beautiful fat-capped Kaze laid in the cut. The bicycle seat he sat on elevated him significantly. The road bike had to set him back a couple of grand and his skin tight cycle pants and jersey tried, in vain, to contain his rippling muscles. My mind chuckled at his outfit.
  “Yeah, man. Business as usual. The city is simultaneously my muse and my canvas and I have no qualms about adorning it as I please,” he said before pausing as if pondering what to say next. As he looked at the clouds smiling to himself in admiration for a moment I held onto the last word of his statement but my grip was slowly loosening. “So how has work been?” I asked. “That’s a nice bike you’ve got, K. Life is treating you well.”
  “…no qualms about adorning it as I please, young man. This city is ours for the taking. Bloomberg, Giuliani, Kerik, Kelly - those narcissistic bums may have run the city but I refuse to let them run me out of here as they’ve run so many other natives from New York. So as a gift to the city and it’s denizens I present my name to the walls and gates for their viewing pleasure.”
  His tone was pleasant but his gaze made me slightly uncomfortable. It shouldn’t.  I’d known him for such a long time it shouldn’t affect me but it does. My question was never answered nor did he respond to my praise for his bike. On cue with my thoughts: 
  “This old thang,” referring to the clearly brand new bicycle, “I’ve had it for quite some time and work is great.” I don’t know what Kaze does for work but I’m quite sure that there has to be many financial perks to being the founder of the War Squad. “Well, that’s grea-” I started before he jumped on his bike and rode off. He turned around and yelled something about a party at his house on friday as I stood at the curb as still as garbage that can’t fit down the gutters storm drain. My presence was discarded by Kaze once again as a crack of thunder sounded followed by an immediate downpour. Drenched, I started to walk past the storm drain as garbage finally made its way into the sewer.
  
  I walked home and planned to check my voice messages after I settled. Getting “settled” was a term I used for kicking off my shoes and leaving them where I may - this time one landing in the foyer and the other atop the kitchen counter next to a can of dog food that I bought mistakenly after a drunken trip to the habibi grocery store at 3am to get a can of pork and beans. I’d usually undress, leaving a trail of clothes until I’m seated on either my bed, my recliner, or my favorite seat - the toilet. 
  So I settled on the toilet and drank the last couple of ounces from a milk container I’d left on the bathroom sink when I brushed my teeth that morning as I let out a short firecracker fart that reverberated around the commode. Scouring my voicemail I heard no messages from any of my former flames. I wondered if the bonfires I felt were just flickers of a Bic to them. 
  Damn.
  I  stood up to look for toilet paper only to find an empty roll and a waste basket full of used napkins, paper towels, and those little subscription cards and cologne advertisements that are annoyingly placed in the mens magazines that I read while soaking in baths that are pleasantly hot enough to boil any semen swimming in my scrotum. Grabbing a lightly soiled napkin I wiped my ass and threw it in the toilet only to find the turd that I strained so hard to release was the size of a pebble. I then went into the bedroom and, with a swoop of my hand, cleared a space on the bed big enough for me to sleep on. 
  I laid. Facing the side of the bed that was occupied by junk that I’d received from Craigslisters and ebay sellers my mind wrapped around the times when women laid there. The pillow that once preserved the lavender-citrus-chamomile-jojoba scents of their conditioners now holds the rank smell of the REM induced drool that leaked from my mouth as I snored relentlessly throughout many nights. How I’d missed closing post-climax eyes after sleepily watching the moons rays cascade over strands of their hair.
  I laid immersed in junk. My home was a wreck and had been since the last time I had company. What time is it? Shit. Kaze is probably knee deep
in some pussy right now. He’s probably in poontang heaven. He’s probably backstroking  in a pool of pussy juice while I lay here doing the dead mans float on this filthy mattress my grandma bought from Sleepys before she turned senile and maxed out all of her credit cards buying air conditioned dog kennels and shipping them to  people whose name and addresses she’d found in the White Pages.
  Turning on my side Diana appeared in the doorway, her silhouette aglow by the faint orange light of my lamp. She moved towards me and I received her entrance with calm anticipation. The clearly visible hard-on in my shorts was met by her prying fingers. Stroking the material that strained to tame my erection I moaned in ecstasy until a spot of moisture accumulated where the head of my dick was.
  Turning on my side I envisioned Diana appearing in the doorway. Her curls cast shadows on her sensuous face and I imagined her floating towards me. Her hand nor mine had to touch a damn thing before I came on myself. 
  Damn. I wish it was really her.

Lions BF x Kaze War - Street Dreams University

November 20, 2012… Footnote

I have some entries ready but they aren’t in chronological order.  Bear with me…

On second thought, I will wait to release them so that they are chronologically sound.  This universe is confusing enough how it is; no need to further lead our minds astray.

November 1, 2012… A Night with Sabe KST

image

The day went well: a fifty carton cigarette heist.  Once I relinquish myself of said loot I will have made a decent profit.  One may ask what determines a decent profit when all finances amassed from stolen goods is considered net income.  Well, my friends, one may say it’s a win-win situation because I paid nothing and gained a lot but I must tell you that I did pay a price - I gambled my freedom.  I gambled my freedom, my serene state of mind, my sanity, and last but not least, my nerves.  These few things are priceless so it doesn’t matter if I netted five thousand or five hundred dollars none of it is worth being incarcerated, mentally unstable, insane, and last but not least, a nervous wreck.

Later in the day, a hair sliver before dawn, I sat down to listen to a story told by my good friend Kaze War.

"I reached home after a long day.  The KST kid hit me on the text and said he finally bought his bicycle so he wanted to know if I’d be down to ride across the bridge and go bombing.  I was down but I wanted to wait a bit until after midnight when it would be a little sweeter as far as police presence is concerned.  A moment later, while I was still in my boxers tending to a few things, I get a text.

"I’m outside."

"Shit, I wanted to take a power nap to recharge before going out but fuck it - I gathered up around fifteen cans, downed a quick cup of Bustelo and headed out the door.  

"We reached the bridge in no time.  Sabe is a beast on the bike.  He’s ahead of me, chopping the air as he glides, ascending effortlessly across the bridge.  I pace myself to the apex of the bridge when I realize not only that the rest of the bridge is blanketed in darkness but so is the island of Manhattan for as wide as my view allows.  I stopped in awe as bikers passed me, the glare of their flashlights like a diamond in a sea of coal.  I marveled at the glorious view of blacked-out buildings. The rows upon incongruent rows of them looked like ebony building blocks laid upon a black carpet.  

"I descended with caution.  Sabe was nowhere in sight. My attention remained on the path as my descent into darkness quickened.  As I sped I exclaimed a "Yo" every couple of feet just to alert any oncoming travelers of a cyclist barreling towards them.  I emerged into Chinatown like a baby emerging from the womb of his mother into lightless world but not even an umbilical cord would’ve been able to hold me back from exploring this abandoned paradise.  I dipped behind Sabe and made a left turn onto a street that was completely dark and deserted expect for a lone oriental man speaking mandarin very loud into a cell phone.  

"We proceeded.  Sabe brought a flashlight.  He suggested I bring one but I didn’t own any except for my bike headlight which couldn’t be attached due to me breaking a piece of the holster.  He shined the light at the walls.  It was needed, those streets were so dark I couldn’t see what was on the gates.  Northbound we went.  I caught a few tags here and there but much less than I would’ve normally.  As we headed uptown the police eyed us.  Some squad cars passed with normalcy and others suspiciously.  They probably wondered what we were up to, two men dressed in black, but they had more pressing matters at hand.  

"As we approached the Bowery we both noticed the famed Bowery wall at the same time.  We confirmed the sight: the wall was completely clean.  A pristine white surface greeted us and we met it with a divine gloss black.  Tag after identical tag we ragged the wall as , one by one, we looked out for one another.  The job of sentry was difficult in the dark due to the lack of traffic lights but it helped that all of the emergency vehicles were required to have their flashing LED lights on.  I watched traffic then he switched places until the euphoria of hitting the wall overcame us and we both hit the spot simultaneously. We were done.  I went to grab my bike when I noticed Sabe adding accents to our names. Turning to my right to look out for the police I saw a squad car on the eastbound side of the street.  Just as i saw them they must’ve seen us but they went straight.  I’d like to think that they were about to leave us alone but contemplated it.  Who knows what went through their minds as they went east for two blocks before making a u-turn to head full speed in our direction.  We split the scene - Sabe went west and I turned the corner to go north.  The cops turned my way and were a beat behind me but on the northbound side of the street while I was on the southbound.  They didn’t have me, though.  They probably didn’t know if we were on bike or foot.  I cut a left, west one block then turned south at the next corner.

"Yo," I yelled.

"Yo."  That was Sabe.  We know one another well. He fled to the same block that I did.  We went back to the wall to add some finishing touches before making moves.  

"We went to Lafayette and caught wreck before scheming on a billboard located across from a fire station.  A man exited a cab in the ebony night.  He lingered upon Sabe and I as we schemed on a wall.  He suspiciously eyed us.  What the fuck is up with him?!  Sabe was correct by figuring the guy was drunk .  The poor chap couldn’t find the fucking door to his residence.  He was stumbling around in the darkness looking for the door to his apartment so Sabe helped him find it.  It’s crazy how the same kids would’ve probably robbed him had this been twenty years ago.  

"My, how times have changed..

"Heading north we had a plan.  Sabe was going to tackle a spot that he’s had his eye on for quite some time.  Let’s do it. 

"We were walking the bikes up Lafayette when a familiar car slowed to the speed of our walk twenty feet away from us.  The Vandal Squad.  I remembered the Taurus distinctly from a previous altercation.  That marked the second time that evening I saw them.  They shined the spotlight in our direction.  Maybe they were trying to confirm whatever fucked up, vague description the Bowery squad car sent through the airwaves.  Whatever the case we mounted the bikes and made a sharp turn.  Losing them, for the time being, we headed to the location.

"As we get there it’s completely dead except for some blinking lights midway up the block.  These blinking lights later turned out to be the flashing lights of some photographers bicycles.  As they set up their equipment we set up ours.  The spot that Sabe wanted was up on the third story of an abandoned building.  It looked like a ledge but it really was a building without a facade.  He needed a boost to grab ahold of the lowest part of a fire escape on the building adjacent to the target.  Once he was up there it was so fucking dark that I didn’t see him again until he dropped back to the concrete forty minutes later.  I jumped on my bike to remain mobile as I watched for police.  Adrenaline rushing I stashed my paint as I rode around the vicinity.  Since nowhere was open for me to use the bathroom my colon was about to burst with whatever I ate earlier.  The pain was imminent and unsafe for my bicycle seat to bear. I held it as much as I could before yelling up to Sabe to see if he was okay and tell him I had to take a gravely urgent shit.  

"Unable to contain my bowels I found a safe spot, pulled my pants down and took a nice, loud shit on the ground in front of a building on Bond St.  Glad that Sabe bought two bottles of water from a vendor, I used it and my t-shirt to wipe my ass then used my tank top to reinforce my underwear.  From the sound of my exploding ass I thought the shit would’ve been messy as hell but it wasn’t.  I put my coat back on then pulled my phone out to take a picture of the regal pile of doodoo when a squad car pulled up to the corner, flashed the spotlight on me then parked.  I jumped back on the bike and went up the street to check on Sabe.  He was still up there.  The photographers gained a few people.  I was skeptical so I parked the bike and went over there to see if any cops were with them, blending in to watch us.  Halfway to them a squad car approached me slowly, turned on the spotlight and passed the building Sabe scaled cautiously.  I played it off like I was checking my phone.  They passed.  I exhaled.  My bike wasn’t near - it wasn’t too far away either - so I would’ve had to make a mad dash if they stopped me. 

"The operation continued.  I still couldn’t see my companion but I heard the steady hissing of a spray can being emptied.  I waited, cruising around, circling adjacent blocks keeping my eyes peeled for patrolmen.  The squad car that rolled by me when I conveniently used the front of that building as a toilet was still posted on the next corner.  I wasn’t sure whether or not they were there to watch us or just there to provide a beacon of light to that specific corner but I kept a suspicious tab on them by getting close enough to see if perhaps they were standing outside of their car watching. 

"I went back to the building.  A cab pulled up and two men jumped out.  My paranoia said they looked like police.  I listened to my paranoia.  I fled into the shadows and watched them as they stood and looked around.  Not sure if they were cops or not I took this opportunity to ride around the block.  When I returned they were gone but Sabe was still up there.  I told him that I would help him down if need be.  He responded but I didn’t hear him nor see him.  My once-steel nerves were slowly turning to silly putty but I was focused on doing my job while he did his.  There was no way I would leave him and I knew that it would take a helluva lot of light in this deathly darkness for any cops to see his ass up there.  Assuming he was ready I told him that I would make sure the coast is clear for him to come down.  This took me about ten minutes.  When I finally returned I called for him but looked in the darkness and saw him just about to drop down.  The sight of him elicited a startling ‘oh shit!’ from me and right as i watched two men pulled up on bicycles.  Sabe jumped down, stumbling when his feet touched the ground, right before the two bikers went to the door of the building to gain entry.  

"We fled.

"Our combined adrenaline could’ve fueled a marathon.  His experience up there and my nerve-wracking time trying my damnedest to look out in the darkness were two outstanding feats.  We cruised.  When we reached Houston Street we came face to face with the vandal squad again.  They probably were looking for us since the Bowery wall is their primal location to catch vandals and we defiled it with such grace.  Their headlights scowled at us from their position ahead at a currently defunct traffic light.  Thinking fast I told Sabe to follow me as I turned right then faked left on Lafayette just to cut through the gas station and make a left onto Crosby St. before making a sharp left onto this little side street that’s between Lafayette and Prince.  When we reached the intersection of said side street and Lafayette we simultaneously craned our necks around the corner and saw the vandal squad, facing south on a northbound street, at a standstill with their high beams on.  One thing was confirmed: they were looking for us.  We doubled back to Crosby and cut a left to see flashing lights in front of us.  They must’ve alerted their homies.  We backtracked to Houston and headed west as fast as we could considering how difficult it was to see a few feet ahead of us. Cutting a left on Mercer we headed south.  About two blocks ahead of us there were more cops.  One block south we dipped west then south again.  I advised Sabe to stay on the sidewalk because we were easier to spot riding in the street.  Going south another cop car cut a corner so we turned east on Grand St. and started to make moves.  There was no way we wouldn’t be making it home, kid.  No surrender, baby.  Not tonight, not ever.

"We made it to the bridge moments later with our freedom intact. The next morning Sabe headed out to Houston to take photos of the Bowery wall and it was painted over by How and Nosm as they were starting their mural!  Martha Cooper was there and Sabe asked if she caught any pics of our exploits.  She didn’t.  

"Fuck.

"The lights are back on now.  Back to business."

Okay. One day someone will read this. Until then…

I’m just another one of those motherfuckers who write long-ass paragraphs and diatribes on tumblr that never get read.  Those same diatribes that I’ve skipped over many times, wondering who would take their time to write such boring shit, while looking for the next picture of a beautiful piece of art or a beautiful photograph or a beautiful woman in a random stage of undress.

Furthermore - WHO GIVES A FUCK? Im gonna write anyway.

Cheerio

October 27, 2012… A Soiree at the Ale House

As told to me by my good friend, Kaze War:

"So, I’m with my girlfriend and we leave my house to eat at the Ale House.  Everything is cool as we devour wings and fries.  I stopped drinking beer recently - read: last week - because I’ve gained a considerable amount of weight in the past 9 or 10 months so I had a shot of Hennessey straight while the young lady had tequila AND Six Point on tap.  Everything was fresh until the workers started stopping patrons at the door and charging them to get inside then shit got even fresher.

"The bartender changed from his black-vest-over-his-t-shirt ensemble to a skeleton costume with an air pump for a external dick to be pumped erect or left flaccid.  Mad scientists, catwoman, barmaids, leprechauns, batman - everyone started pouring into the joint sparking an all out monster mash.  A female DJ was on the ones and twos while a heavy duty bra held up the massive ones and twos under a black tube top as she warmed up the party with mad underground rhythms with some smooth beats that the bar vibes to.  My girl was especially digging it as she ordered more drinks, I turned down her offer so I could mellow out a bit until the chump-for-a-bartender did some seriously stupid dance right in front of me, swinging his costumed dick back and forth.  I told my girl that he was definitely out of line and it was borderline offensive that he did it in front of me, Killer Kaze, in the flesh but I let it ride because I understand that sometimes dumb motherfuckers know not what they do and don’t mean any harm.  A few moments later I was looking to my left at this guy who pulled up next to me to order drinks, with my broad to my right, then I looked back at her. Much to my chagrin, she accused the Baron of Brute Ballsiness (myself) of ‘going along with’ the bartenders silly antics.  What type of shit is that?! Why, after I JUST SAID that I was ‘borderline’ offended, would I go along with the silly shit that he’s doing?  What was she trying to imply?  After realizing the alcohol was influencing the evil transformation, turning my beautiful girl into a gargoyle, I verbally whipped her ass for saying that dumb shit then commenced to having a good time although I was a little disturbed that her transformation had begun.

"Before I knew it another round had been guzzled and she was over by the DJ booth directing him, because DJ Healthy Tits gave way to DJ Gangsta Rap, on what to play next.  Cool. Some ill indian dude wearing a bakers hat that was the replica of another worn by a girl came in accompanied by an entourage.  I sensed that the indian kid wanted to spark a convo but I purposely igged him until he wasn’t able to be igged anymore.  He leaned towards me.

"Wwwwwwhat’s uppppppp, dude?  I’m fffffrom Chicaggggoooooo," he stammered, definitely tipsy off whatever was in his glass. His lean had to have discomforted him yet he sacrificed comfort for conversation.  We spoke. He told me that his dumb ass bakers hat was actually supposed to be the top of a condiment shaker.  He was pepper and his girl, who was white, was salt of course.  They were also with a dude who was dressed as a hasidic jew, bearded and black hatted.  When my girl was first nearing the cusp of supreme inebriation she pulled the beard down and let it snap back to his face so violently that I was certain I would’ve had to mop the floor with this guys face.  He took it like a champ, though.  I guess it pays to be pretty because if she were someone else he probably would’ve tried to put his hands on her.

"Anyway, the entourage had a girl with them who interrupted Pepper to tell me that I reminded her of a MMA fighter. I’d heard it before.  Pepper then bought a round of drinks and gave me one.  "Cheers to (the MMA fighter)!"  Salud, motherfuckers!   

"The night pursued and I got loose with my dance floor pranks.  When they had a costume dance-off I jumped in behind some guy in a Macho Man Randy Savage costume holding a Slim Jim in both hands.  His boy, some dude in an extra smedium suit tried to hold me back like he was some tough guy but I pushed his ass out the way. He fronted like he wanted to get it in but I kept antagonizing him, since he was trying to be superdick, as soon as I stopped he turned to me and tried to make a joke but I shut him down and he told me I was on some ‘other shit’ before leaving the joint.

"Quiet as kept, once the joint was kaput my girl and I went to the local late night pizzeria when we saw a kid wearing a Supreme shirt with arabic lettering on the front. She said his shirt said subhan, I said it was a Supreme shirt.  A quick debate ensued and she told me to ‘ask the bitch that was standing next to’a me what it says since I was looking at her.  I swear the woman next to me had to be 50 something years old AND I wasn’t even looking at that social-security-eligible-heffer.  Nonetheless, we argued, my shorty bounced and went home - expecting me to run after her (don’t ask why).  I finished my scrumptious slice, dabbed my mouth with a napkin and dashed back to the lab."

Insane.

October 26, 2012…A Friend of Kaze War

I roamed for quite some time after running errands for necessities.  Now I must rest. My day is done and I am seated on my throne triumphant of my days activities.  You would kill to know the specifics but the details are unimportant, especially in an age such as the present, an age where everything typed is monitored, anything whispered into one ear may be amplified into anothers just to be whispered again, softly, into an agents ear someways down the line.  The details are unimportant yet my safety is.

I am well. It is still early. Time is on my side as the eve spills into the night.  We will meet again later.

October 25, 2012… A Friend of Kaze War

As told to me by my comrade, Kaze War:

"Just left my good friend Sabe.  I had to visit his new office space.  The change of seasons is more noticeable in the winds and my hooded jacket shielded me from the cold arm of Lady Autumn.  Sabe is doing well.  His injury must be ailing him but he is nonetheless in good spirits. It is a fact that Remo BTB was apprehended last night. Sadness looms through the streets of the Lower East Side of Manhattan until the day of his return.  Farewell, for now, Remo.  

"Before coming inside I was stopped by my neighbor.  She shared her New York story with me.  She is a native Bostonian but has been here for quite some time and has worked in one of the bleakest, most dangerous neighborhoods in the city.  She told me of her appreciation of the diversity and her newfound understanding of city life.  Quite interesting to say the least for I am of a similar cloth, of the same pattern, as the individuals she interacts with daily.  Still, I figure that if my story was opened to her it would not be so easily digested so I decided not to feed it to her.  The option was never on the table, anyway.  She spoke of her car being robbed of its catalytic converter while parked right in front of our homes, saying the professionals at the auto shop told her someone had to have rolled under her truck and sawed the converter out of its operating position.  What a shame."

 New York.

Kaze War - Real and Refreshing featuring Do Em Dirty Ink