SATURDAY, THAT PERFECT DAY — an intersection downtown as a crowd spilled down Fourth Street streaming toward me on the corner at Broadway, for the first time ever, I snapped a photo with my cell phone — OPTIONS: EMAIL. This image of all these people, this surging crowd, blew away in the air like a calendar leaf into the cyber-nothing slipstream of microwave ether, the fragrance of your life wafting like cinnamon. 

Judges are in the banker's pockets

Corporate greed must go

Stop depositing your soul in the Lake of Fire

We are not overthrowing a democracy

We are restoring one

2 black women scooting around the corner on a side street in a black compact honk and wave, honk and wave. Other drivers are honking and waving. A bony jogger strides down the sidewalk pallid, eyes straight ahead.

Occupy together

99%

Buying is all that is asked of you

We don't have "varied agendas"

We are against "neoliberal economics" look that up

Bail out people not Wall St.

Iraq veterans against the war

Please don't feed the bankers

The last march looked like 3,000 and this looks like maybe 7 or 8,000; LAPD closed off Broadway across all the intersections from 4th to Temple, screwing up traffic throughout downtown — that's how you know this thing is growing bigger. Takes me twenty extra minutes to get to my secret parking structure (usually overloohked by crowds on these occasions), Little Tokyo, $4. I was going to take the Gold Line downtown but I am late, hurrying to Pershing Square to meet the marchers pouring down 4th. The image of this day flies from a device in my hand toward Phoenix, El Monte and Brooklyn.

Close SOA School of the Americas

We the people not the corporations

Join us

We are the 99%

Nacho died at age 95, but I still see him standing by Carnitas Michoacan under the open eves of Grand Central Market barefoot in his chanclas, watching the procession with grouchy bemusement through his one good eye. He has a plastic bag sagging with stuff that he haggled over with the vendors. His kids always hated that. He doesn't see me. Bunker Hill projects this presence from the 1950s, 1960s. (He a...