Byline: Famous Monsters Part 6: Demonic Testimony

Buford Youthward

I stand before you this month with no reservation. Intent on being defenseless, I offer no eye contact, yield no commitment, wipe my heart off my sleeve.

Witnessing another season of pop stars, it's hard not to feel bitter. All the leftovers are left for the looters. Culture has lost some luster, lost some lust while robber barons fetish over fuel, topping off their own tanks.

Charging defendants with dirty hands while high ups are floundering on all fronts is contentious. When no wrongs are being righted the only thing to do is expect less.

Every person is entitled to be valued by their best moments. Yet we often judge each other based on our worst. No justice is impartial.

Rule of law is its own religion and I find it hard to kneel for something that I can't feel. Quality of life is forsaken for order while qualified folks find better things to do than serve the public.

Serving style has always been my favorite faith based activity. I've gotten no kick backs, no federal grants, no love from a government filled with hate and fear.

Graffiti speaks through people as music does. And like music, the most vital element of graffiti is its disposability. By obsessing over the aesthetics of graffiti, we run the risk of making them too precious, and lose the instant debris factor that makes it such a subversive joy.

There is beauty in not knowing who devised the graffiti that captures your attention, or what tradition it corresponds to. Sometimes you don't want to know. You just know that it made the rooftop or freight train look a little more dangerous as you passed by.

Members of the jury and parties for the plaintiff stare me down as if a demon is in their midst. But I'm too divine, marching into municipal court laughing at the subpoenaed principals. I maintain my glib edge while listening to the complaint filled docket. With callous disregard, I rest my case and await sentencing.

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