Is this a racist statement?

 

Mark Cuban, owner of The Dallas Mavericks, said he would cross the street if he saw a black guy in a hoodie come up to him.

 

Whether he likes it or not, I will back up Mister Cuban’s freedom to speak freely.

 

Once upon a dark city, Hispanics surrounded me in throwaway hoodies over hoodies because they were about to commit a crime that the CIA would classify as Black Ops.

 

They were members of a South Bronx gang called Power Rules.

 

They were summoned by a gangster I helped in childhood when I brought him art equipment to channel creativity on paper instead of the walls in our building. 

 

Years later, he saw what a Neo Nazi and others did to me at NYU after the first bombing of the World Trade Center. Coldly, my friend summoned his hit squad.

 

I could smell machine oil on the faceless ones in shadows. They packed heat to extradite Nazi into a van and to basement in Fort Apache for me to work over six feet under.

 

Instead, I went to the Sixth Precinct in The Village. Truth, Justice and the comic books…

 

My gangster friend warned me not to be naive. Don’t trust NYPD, he said grimly.

 

Things got worse because of police corruption in another version of Power Rules. 

 

All of a sudden, Nazi inflicted head injuries behaved like a time bomb in brain.

 

Fade to MRI and how many years passed by? What century is this? Who am I?

 

Technically being brain dead doesn’t mean I can’t dream of revenge by living well.

 

It’s time for this ghost in the machine to wake up world/ shake up system.

 

Come hell or high water, justice happens to evildoers.

 

Count down on it you shades of Nazi scum …

 

To Sleep, Perchance To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks: Real Life Comic Book Cyber Journal Of The Better Angels Of Our Nature By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Chapter One: It was a dark and stormy knight of Jedi journalism

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

Poetic Justice is the first warning shot

Is this a racist statement?

 

Mark Cuban, owner of The Dallas Mavericks, said he would cross the street if he saw a black guy in a hoodie come up to him.

 

Whether he likes it or not, I will back up Mister Cuban’s freedom to speak freely.

 

Once upon a dark city, Hispanics surrounded me in throwaway hoodies over hoodies because they were about to commit a crime that the CIA would classify as Black Ops.

 

They were members of a South Bronx gang called Power Rules.

 

They were summoned by a gangster I helped in childhood when I brought him art equipment to channel creativity on paper instead of the walls in our building. 

 

Years later, he saw what a Neo Nazi and others did to me at NYU after the first bombing of the World Trade Center. Coldly, my friend summoned his hit squad.

 

I could smell machine oil on the faceless ones in shadows. They packed heat to extradite Nazi into a van and to basement in Fort Apache for me to work over six feet under.

 

Instead, I went to the Sixth Precinct in The Village. Truth, Justice and the comic books…

 

My gangster friend warned me not to be naive. Don’t trust NYPD, he said grimly.

 

Things got worse because of police corruption in another version of Power Rules. 

 

All of a sudden, Nazi inflicted head injuries behaved like a time bomb in brain.

 

Fade to MRI and how many years passed by? What century is this? Who am I?

 

Technically being brain dead doesn’t mean I can’t dream of revenge by living well.

 

It’s time for this ghost in the machine to wake up world/ shake up system.

 

Come hell or high water, justice happens to evildoers.

 

Count down on it you shades of Nazi scum …

 

To Sleep, Perchance To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks: Real Life Comic Book Cyber Journal Of The Better Angels Of Our Nature By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Chapter One: It was a dark and stormy knight of Jedi journalism

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

NYPD and a Neo Nazi at NYU made possible this MRI of my injured brain.

 

I think of living well by getting revenge on the world.

 

I’m a good guy gone ad.

 

LOL

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

To Sleep, Perchance To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks: Real Life Comic Book Cyber Journal Of The Better Angels Of Our Nature By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

Chapter One: It was a dark and stormy knight of Jedi journalism

See book. Read movie

I was practically ordered to move my disabled mother out of her apartment and leave her furniture behind because we’re getting bunk beds. How I can prove what’s happening to us in The South Bronx? Some will shout this never happened like The Holocaust.

 

The new landlords have tried several illegal tactics to get us out so they can charge thousands of $$ in rent to new tenants. I went to several New York City agencies and experienced the indifference of several office drones to the same old tired complaints.

 

They do their jobs to pay their own rent.

 

Should I try the IRS because The Hasidim landlords are now offering 8,000 dollars in cash to get us to move out? Basically it can’t even move us across the street to The Ortiz Funeral Parlor. It cost a lot more to rest in peace than it does to live life.

 

In some cases, poor people are made to suffer long by homelessness before they die quick in a city of illegal guns and roses that purges children of all ages from welfare.

 

This is survival of the fittest? This is evolution?

 

I don’t want to raise hatred toward Hasidim. They are a lot better than previous landlords, Italians that, within a week of buying the building, tried to burn everyone with gasoline in a town that, once upon a time, looked like Europe after World War II. Children can’t turn off fires with tears, I once wrote in the spirit of public service rejected by FDNY.

 

Open a bedroom window across a funeral parlor to sense ashes of ashes that drifted miles away from Ground Zero and settled unreported over The South Bronx of Captain America. Where are The Avengers, kids? Where was The God of Moses when a survivor of a prison camp in Poland was thrown into a damp pit and held ransom by his Dominican employees in New York City? Where were you, POV of Channel Thirteen?

 

Here then is a story about shades of Nazism or a lust for money.

 

How can I prove all this and prevent my mother from being forced into a death camp of a homeless shelter which is what The South Bronx of very low income actually is.

 

I have evidence and if all else fails, well, writing this is just the beginning of painting a dark picture for the cities of the world.  Evicting bad tenants proves to the staying power of Earth. The next stop is The Perfect Democracy where all races are equal. Is this sound and fury signifying nothing from the so-called City of Angels? And The Oscar goes to…?

 

This is about bringing myself to judgment.

 

My patience just ran out.

Words Are Dreams Made Real Like Nightmares

My disabled mother disappeared by The Hudson River inside a playhouse off Broadway.

 

Grief was kept from clouding childlike faith I would find her soon. Still felt guilt to have allowed her to go by herself to a ladies room.  Why did I allow myself be hypnotized by an audience and a movie screen, both props for stage actors?

 

I noticed tourists had notebooks.  A middle-aged white-haired woman had a cold stare when she saw me read her handwriting that went beyond borders of the page.

 

The fourth wall broke. I looked up and saw sky over West 38^th street in Manhattan.

 

The small theater was out in the open air surrounded by cars, citizens and cameras.

 

Suddenly, a second-story subway train pulled up to a bus stop. It had no windows except for one to provide a view for pilots to travel cross-country and oceans.

 

A bedroom door opened and I sighed see my mother in the city that never sleeps.

 

All the city of the naked world is a stage where life movies on.

 

I dreamt writing this in my notebook.

 

See book. Read film.

 

Run, story, run…

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

My disabled mother disappeared by The Hudson River inside a playhouse off Broadway.

 

Grief was kept from clouding childlike faith I would find her soon. Still felt guilt to have allowed her to go by herself to a ladies room.  Why did I allow myself be hypnotized by an audience and a movie screen, both props for stage actors?

 

I noticed tourists had notebooks.  A middle-aged white-haired woman had a cold stare when she saw me read her handwriting that went beyond borders of the page.

 

The fourth wall broke. I looked up and saw sky over West 38^th street in Manhattan.

 

The small theater was out in the open air surrounded by cars, citizens and cameras.

 

Suddenly, a second-story subway train pulled up to a bus stop. It had no windows except for one to provide a view for pilots to travel cross-country and oceans.

 

A bedroom door opened and I sighed see my mother in the city that never sleeps.

 

All the city of the naked world is a stage where life movies on.

 

I dreamt writing this in my notebook.

 

See book. Read film.

 

Run, story, run…

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

Once upon a millennium, when I was a boy, the greatest garage to build new tech was from the junkyards of a poor town, the only one connected to mainland of the USA.

 

This is about the Richie Riches of The South Bronx.  This is to prove Earth’s greatest resources are creative children in Public Libraries. However, there are no great stories without broken hearts and no refunds for wishes come true. Zoom in closer from Cyber Space to see kids working on robots at P.S 161, my alma mater. See how happy they are on making dreams reality for The National Science Fair.

 

They have a gift called A.I, short for Amazing Imagination, to evolve other A.I.

 

Are they ready to change the world in the fierce war of ideas?

 

Watch them kick up engines. Watch them roll.

 

Go time.

 

To Sleep, Perchance To Pitch Nightmares To DreamWorks: Real Life Comic Book Cyber Journal Of The Better Angels Of Our Nature By Danny Aponte of P.S 161

 

This new work to report the unreported was done on old Win98 and Adobe 4.0/5.0

 

Chapter One: It was a dark and stormy knight of journalism in media firefight

 

We’re having fun now.

 

http://thegreatamericantweet.blogspot.com

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

http://admerica.blogspot.com

 

http://kissmybigfatad.blogspot.com

http://dannyxmachina.blogspot.com