Manifesto by Nancy Sayavong & Gracey Dale.

When brisk air hits your face, TELL THEM YOU'LL BE HOME BY LATE DECEMBER. Tell them you've bought a survival guide protection case FOR THE WINTER.

The city streets of CHICAGO will slap the hell out of OUR BODIES like PUNCHING BAGS, prissy boxers with LIMP WRISTS while walking on posh avenue side walks and poverty roads segregated by races and specialty interests NOT FOUND IN RURAL FARMLAND NOSTALGIA.

We see performance art that would FUCK the minds of southern bells and farmer boys from HOMETOWN antebellum houses,
we can begin to see theatre lights blind us. When prior, we hang in pitch-dark hay barns to cope family ties and pig slaughter chicken burn catastrophe... Okay, maybe that's probably just me...

The CHICAGO THEATRE gets brighter than small town police lights surrounding high school football games on Friday nights.
The artificial field is the center stage WHERE WE DON'T CARE.

Let's go under the bleachers and KISSss like we did 10th grade when we had nothing to do besides free movies and linger upon the stars IF WE ONLY HAD THE TRUCK TONIGHT. The stars they SHINE ON BEDFORD while skyscrapers shine on you during slumber OH! how we linger. (let's go back)
Let's go back and hang with our pops and polish chicken eggs for $300 A WEEK full time in toxic coops;...(they water the eyes.)
"Them chickens, they show no mercy. Shiiiiit!" Saying it in a Southern drawl. THAT'S ONE THING WE MISS. Knowing where you are WITH WHOM YOU ARE WITH. With a familiar taste of lint IN YOUR MOUTH, families they weave into us LIKE QUILTS THAT TELL STORIES. Stories THAT WE COULD NEVER FORGET. Stories UNLIKE THE STORIES MADE HERE.. in THE WINDY CITY.