rich jones:
kind of sort of think i get it
all emotions just for interest
you don't only get my interest
now you know that's for the fishes
when i talk i know the fishes
smile and i listen listen
see it ain't really all that different
than the way we used to do it
player change the game's the same
and i don't play to losers stupid
i don't play for choosers stupid
i don't play with dunces dummy
cup of joe a bag of dummies
you ain't taking nothing from me
vyle.:
picasso square protesters
display more than attendance
more than that
comiskey pilsner pastime
we know you ain't get a pendant
quarterback
summer camp rookie snap
naw this ain't no tendon
throw it back
off sheffield in a sandlot
rowengardener not here pitching
coordinates
how can we get more descriptive
when existence confused with just offensive
keypad pressers
pure conjecture of vindictive
we in the streets now
cause you wouldn't listen
rich jones:
supposed to do xyz
ended up playing with his abcs
then colors next shapes
anything to avoid
watching world *a* three
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Daley Plaza: 100,000 Strong and the Weight of a Promise
Downtown Chicago, where the buildings loom like silent jurors, where the past and future intersect at corners paved with steel and shadow. Daley Plaza, once a space for bureaucratic monotony, now transformed into something else entirely—something alive, something undeniable.
100,000 people stand here.
Shoulder to shoulder.
A mass of bodies, of voices, of stories—of presence.
And at the center of it all, the Picasso sculpture, swallowed whole by the enormity of what surrounds it.
It was a gift once, in 1967—a symbol, an abstract form meant to represent whatever the city needed it to be. But today, it is dwarfed, barely a whisper against the thunder of the people standing before it.
People who are seen as offensive just by being here.
Not because they're rioting. Not because they're burning anything down.
But because they refuse to disappear.
Because they are demanding what was promised to them.
The promise of an America sketched in speeches, drafted in legislation, held up as a beacon to the world.
The kind of America that was written about fifty years ago—
But never meant for them.
Because the people who spoke those words, the ones who set those ideals in motion—they didn't want everyone to reach it.
They wanted some to thrive. They wanted others to drown in loans.
To be consumed by corporations. To be grateful for scraps.
But 100,000 people fill this plaza, and they are not drowning.
They are here.
They are standing.
They are surprised by themselves, by their own progress—by the fact that despite everything stacked against them, they are still here.
And that is terrifying to the ones who thought they wouldn't make it.
The city moves around them—buses groan down Washington, the 'L' rattles overhead, the lawyers inside the courthouse check their watches and pretend they don't hear the roar outside.
But the weight of 100,000 bodies is impossible to ignore.
The sheer force of that many people believing in their right to exist, their right to claim the future, their right to an America that is supposed to be theirs.
And so they stand.
Because standing is enough.
Because standing is resistance.
And because the next generation deserves to inherit something better.