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Five Letter Words
Last night I did not attend any of the many New Orleans Night Against Crime block parties, not Phylis's, not the Zulu's around the corner (who the day before had representatives canvassing the neighborhood handing out invitation flyers to all the gangsters who were sitting on the steps of all us homeowners. The gangster's laughed, just as they did last year, when I witnessed the same scenario), and I did not attend, nor was I invited, to the (Rocheblave) block party of Mr. Earnest Bunn, but I was happy to hear it going on and the white Christmas lights hung from the eaves of Mr. Bunn's corner store at Rocheblave and Bienville made me smile and feel festive as I sprayed myself with mosquito repellant and laid down flat, headed for sleep on the excercise mat in the construction site that is my new gutted home. I stroked the wood of the sawed off shovel handle penetrated in all directions over the top six inches by 3 inch exterior grade screws and breathed myself towards sleep as a seven month old baby in his mother's arms in the Seventh Ward is shot dead, through his eye, and the baby's blood and that of his mother, who was shot in the neck, mixes and drips down mother's clothing (check the tense, motherfuckers, it's happening right now in a theatre near you), to become the art of the graph, as what might be termed a spike, in statistical parlance--six murders in four days--gives rationale to our parties, coalitions, and chants against crime.