• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 01
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Nobody’s an island surrounded by
a salt sea of despair where mobility’s
measured by access; experiential growth
flourishes despite obstacles like
Herakles’s twelve labors, providing
fodder for the poet, exposure to the painter.

The Bay Area Rapid Transit tunnel’s
shoulders square off majestically
like inner city subway walls on the
breathing peninsula where I was raised;
standing tall, towering over tiny, little indifferences,
petty preferences, perfect reasoning
street artists assert individuality through layered
strokes of 3D graffiti, multicolored hands scrawl
inventive doodles, lewd epithets, pornographic
renderings, across pallid, grey cement
canvasses that breathe life into nothingness.

Interlocking and connecting points wildstyle,
murals of rebellion, personal expression and
high art push boundaries, venerate avant-garde
conceptions, apply three colored tags like pissing,
bombing and rolling—blockbuster creations that
too often sacrifice aesthetics for spray painter speed—
bring life to deathly concrete through artistic inspiration,
thrive in defiance amid a maelstrom of surprises,
political gambits, and social barriers.