and we thru the gang way like they jet ski's too
over mattresses
at addresses
that's destitute
kind of like
we deserve them espy's too
we from chicago
we got ptsd too
chromatic hearted monogram
shine off ignition key
in the land
where pathway surmised for efficiency
capsule circa
penultimate consistently
inside model ish capsule
with airtight partitioning
ralphie logo
atop leowe
like its la traffic
ignore call
you can't brainpick
to become benefactor
raven darkholme tirade
turned turnlington disenchantment
cause you infatuated
better get you some tact
you went online
trying to talk down bout our honor codes
really you just mad
you can't go back around that corner store
read his message
the block astringent
he ain't comfortable
shorty and nem
can't go off of that
after we watched you
front your move
we still on the block
epicurean
tiled tenement
corridor hallway
looking luxuriant
no walk up consultation
without advertisement
because stallone keep
chunky machine variant
never surrendered
like seriphim
she in the mix
like a beringer
we at the fieldhouse
pauls arcade had a restock
when sandifer images
siluttetted us almost as if by default
before lauren collars
put chicago kids in vuitton
reggieknow handstyle
foundational like rebar
chatham banter
coffee canister
with fish grease
playlots made of concrete
what happened to one liner scripting
datadisc torrented
memorex to vestax
spliced sakura
color palette
over etchbath
turnstile hoppers
life like contra
based on how your hat is turned
metra heatlamp
in the snow felt
tahitian sun
titanics next to the synagogue
they said was a chase involved
y'all ran into my building
the doorman said he sent them off
i was by the oberheim
right next to the asr
intercom inactive
mind you
i ain't get the call
aint no buybacks
you bought her some eyelash
and she ghosted you
as the crowd walked out the imax
they took kizer
they took scat
they took dare
they took bradley
they took the safe haven for non sequiturs
they took norma they took reggie
and we thru the gang way like
they jet ski's too
over mattresses
at addresses
that's destitute
kind of like
we deserve them espy's too
we from chicago
we got ptsd too
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Harold's on 53rd and Kimbark.
A lighthouse.
A zero-point.
The axis the neighborhood spun around, where the disheveled, the prominent, and the everyman all stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting on wings fried hard, drowned in mild sauce, wrapped in that wax paper that always turned transparent from grease before you even made it to the car.
vyle. remembers how his craft was fed by it—buckets of chicken, eight-piece combos, and Veuve Clicquot flowing like tap water.
Sitting in his mother's apartment, recording tapes with K-The-I???, High Priest/HPrizm, and Shinobi Black, amongst many, many others.
The energy bouncing off the walls, the kind of sessions that felt like they could change the world.
Maybe they did.
Then came the PHLI block party.
The energy in Harper Court that day was electric—everybody in ReggieKnow's custom tees, the pavilion moving in unison, a testament to the culture breathing in real time.
vyle. stood in the midst of it, taking it all in, when Just Blaze materialized, shaking hands, exchanging words, he couldn't even believe it, the architect of a sound they revered, in his reality.
And when the night needed a period at the end of its sentence, there was only one place to go—Harold's.
The rendezvous, the reset button, the place where a celebration always found its aftertaste.
But the memories go deeper. Further back.
Before vyle. had a taste for the food, before he knew the nuance of a fried-hard order or the way mild sauce soaked into fries, Harold's was simply an excuse
to be somewhere else while out on family errands.
Video Connection.
That's what truly drew him in—the brick-and-mortar manifestation of the old video kiosk from the Village Foods parking lot, Video Connection.
A shrine to storytelling, to imagination, to worlds that stretched beyond Hyde Park.
He'd scan the shelves, fingers running over plastic clamshell cases and glossy cardboard sleeves, his eyes locked on anything that carried the aesthetic of Robocop, anything soaked in the essence of the future—cyborgs, artificial intelligence, the fragile negotiations between man and machine.
He didn't know it then, but he was already seeing the blueprint of what was coming. The synthesis of technology and humanity that, by adulthood, would no longer be fiction.
And sometimes, Harold's wasn't about food or film.
Sometimes, Harold's was about the act of being present.
Standing out front, leaning against a car hood or the low brick wall, "demonstrating"—the neighborhood's unwritten term for conversation as an art form, amongst other utilies the word indicated.
Talking.
Exchanging ideas.
Passing wisdom the way people passed salt and pepper in the booths inside.
Harold's wasn't just a chicken spot.
It was an archive, a town square, an impromptu forum where stories solidified and history took shape.
It was the cipher before the cipher.
The checkpoint before the next move.
The place where it all intersected—past, present, and whatever came next.