Chicago’s getting Woolly! Bruthaz and Sistaz breathing heavy with imminent danger feeding on a hefty appetite of trepidation since no one wants to hear another dearly departed sermon in a city full of Sorrowful Souls. Survival commands that you grow in tune with street intellect which will automatically alert you when to reverse direction by dodging bullets, exhausting zigzag running maneuvers, common-sense ducking from the law and sidestepping other undesirable characters.
Pain, screams, heartache, moreover listening to someone take their last gasp for life as a single tear rolls down the side of their face will rip apart the spirit of even the coolest individual. I will forever hate seeing and smelling blood-spattered street art that stains our corners. Tales from the hood sagas occur in a never-ending cycle that places little or no value on unidentified victims of foul play. Listen to the sound of a zipper closing up the coroner’s black bag. We restate our disgust after the “bad” news description of yet, another young child slain because tension rises as emotions keep us on 10.
Over a lifetime of out-and-out mayhem my logical reactions compartmentalized senseless death into my nonchalant approach. Frequently, tape off Hue-man casualties laid inside a chalk outline remains in our Mental Rolodex forever. Sounds of repeated gunshots put holes in more than property and bodies. Chicago’s way of life expectancy leaves less time for examining our feelings. I need to breathe.
Back in the day, we laughed at our elders for claiming that they’d be surprised if we made it to 25. Lowering our standards at that crucial conflict time was such an uncreative goal to put in our young receptive heads. Ever since we heard that our life would be limited we challenged death as we engage in fearless feats beyond street afflictions. The absence of fear has insanity components, but a lack of fear was also one key to staying alive. Surpassing that pint-sized goal, I have been plagued with witnessing the last rites of more Young Bruthaz than I choose to remember – Souls of Sorrow are typically forgotten as their memories fade to black.
Blessed as a street survivor, I am well acquainted with a disorder in Hue-man’s called murder, which inflames mayhem as we are forced to stomach yet another Sermon of Sorrow. Now let’s deal with the Chiraq heated discussion. Whether a person of the arts compares Chicago to Iraq or not is of little importance since the Young Bruthaz on the streets coined that term way before it became a public outcry of shame to a city. What is the real outcry? So many Young Bruthaz and Sistaz being fatally shot in cold blood with no real solution in sight.
Political figures are truly amazing using D-Rated performances to summon enough tears to exploit public opinions as they push for more gun control regulations when CPD regularly seizes illegal guns and those same illegal weapon holders return back to the streets with another badge of honor (street cred). Everyone knows that it’s pointless to think that proposed bills and enforcement of gun laws will stop the violence when the criminals laugh at said law since they only penalize law-abiding citizen who want to protect their Families. On every street corner you can find someone to sell a “throw-away-gun,” for little or nothing!!!
CHIRAQ or Not?
In all of the heated discussion over the Chiraq lunacy perhaps an outsider with a satire vision is the solution or “Helping hand in Camouflage” that may overtake idle chatter. Chiraq is replicating a Greek play that insightful women conveyed a well thought-out extreme plan to achieve a resolution. Lysistrata is a comedy by Aristophanes. Initially performed in Athens in 411 BCE, it is an amusing story of one woman’s unorthodox mission to end the Peloponnesian War. Lysistrata persuades the women of Greece to abstain from performing sexual acts with their husbands and lovers as a means of forcing the men to negotiate peace—a strategy, however, that intensifies the battle of the sexes.
The dejected Womb-man of the small town of Barbacoas in the Nariño province of Colombia terminated all sexual activity. After years of discouraging pressure on the central government to pave a road linking their town with the rest of the province, they finally reached breaking point and organized the “crossed legs movement” in protest. The letdown by previous administrations to take action has left Barbacoas virtually unreachable by car, leading to scores of deaths. Here’s a quote from Activist Ruby Quinonez:
Ruby Quinonez, one leaders of the “crossed legs movement,” stated: “We are being deprived of our most human rights and as women we can’t allow that to happen … Why bring children into this world when they can just die without medical attention and we can’t even offer them the most basic rights? We decided to stop having sex and stop having children until the state fulfils its previous promises.”
And so like modern day Lysistratas, the women of Barbacoas banned sex from their town. Under the banner of “No more sex. We want our road!!!” The crossed legs movement is an innovative crusade for clarification movement of Womb-man’s battle for their Hue-man rights – one in which sexuality is being used as an empowering tool. Captivating simple-minded men with their diplomatic dispute, the Activists of Barbacoas are fashioning a progressive Feminist Movement that will inspire the yet to come generations.
For my Feminist Sistaz, I’m not saying that your best attribute is in between crossed legs, but I am saying that men are children with life experience. Simple-minded men are mesmerized by a Womb-man’s Matrix and “Pussy Power’ is a GREAT WONDER of the world. Please know that my dig was intended for Phallus carriers which I am member and simple-minded card holder, too. Consider this; if each uncontrolled man kills off one another, life of all Hue-man’s will end as soon as every sperm bank specimens are depleted.
At this instant, I care nothing about the Chiraq conflict because my PHIRE is reserved for supporting solutions to this epidemic rather than taking a fruitless stance on whether Chicago is or is not like Iraq!!! My city has a Soul which is full of Family, Friends and other people who have the GEENUS to sift thru the BULLSHIT!!! Sense the Soul of the 3rd as simple words flop to resolve the habitual plague of fatalities that a mere name and a satire will never substitute for our life, but they shall depict our REALITY!!!