Does honey go bad?

'ello! I am zee 'oney bear, yeaz! Perhapz yoo 'ave heard of zee Paula Dean? I deed that! 
Muhahahahaa!

Dear Seattle

Dear Seattle, 

It’s getting out of hand. The hand out crowd. I appreciate that everyone has his right to freedom of speech and all that. I get it that the sidewalk is a public place but I'm a nice person and should not be made to feel like a bastard each and every time I step out into your streets. 

Here's the thing. I am sorry that life has dealt you a shitty hand. I really am. Money is important for survival. So what sort of person would willingly pour out his life savings? With all certainty of a sample from last week’s commute I could give out -at just one dollar a person- close to $15 dollars every morning on my walk to work. And another $10 on my walk home at night. $25 dollars a day. 

$25 dollars is about what it costs to sponsor a non-profit or a child in Latin America for a month, while I’m on a roll. Maybe I should stop dodging the clip board wranglers too.

Seattle, you scare my mom. And friends from New York. The menace of being verbally assaulted has been known to be followed up by the actual threat of physical assault. I could go on about how many of these panhandlers spend the money handed to them on drugs, or talk about teaching a man to fish, but I know you’re not listening. 

I just want a little change downtown, is all. Can’t you help me? Fine, keep walking, ignore me.

Asshole!

Feels good, doesn’t it? 

Sincerely,

Chris

Pike Place Lights

Pike Place has always had a lot of art, next time you're taking the stairs down to Western on the back side of the market keep your eyes out for the light fixtures. They're walking around above you.

Dream Fragment part two

This is a continuation please read Dream Fragment (Saturday May 7, 2011) first.

Can he smell the smoke from here or is it only that he can feel the grimy blanket the stacks belch? Like the spindled legs of a table draped in cloth the stacks dominate the landscape. From here the city reveals its ordinariness. From here it does not look sinister and vindictive.
The boy walks along the seawall. Shop windows display towering figures made grotesque in the puddles that swirl with rainbows of petroleum spit from the sky or the sea, one cannot know. This window has cookies. Wild colors stacked high like precarious plates in a cartoon, each one the same shape. He turns into the alley made no more illicit by his boots. Finding the darkened door to the bakery, a window above. The bottle shards spinning and sparkling down the alley to distract anyone who might care.
Dropping into the shop is like sliding into moisture itself. The air yeasty and suffocating. He waits for his eyes to find corners. He listens for shoes, for violence and escape. He hears the ticking of wood, the rush of his own bloodstream. His stomach.
There is a long uneven line of light drawn diagonal through the shop, like God’s light in paintings he has seen in the doorways of the cold dark churches, the light always leads to God’s head.
Pastel macaroon coats dirty fingers, hands. Jaws, feverish eating without thinking seated in the warm darkness just outside of the band of light. Staring at the flour that he has stirred cartwheeling in and out of the river of light. He slumps sideways into a sack of flour.