Greenwich Village RMB

WA Delegate: None.

Founder: The Giant Blue Coffee-House of Beat Poets and Artists

World Factbook Entry

"The Earth is an Indian thing." - Kerouac

It's maybe 1956 or 1962, or some other time, because a calendar is just a map of time. The Village is a Beat community of poets, artists, musicians, writers and thinkers.

Kerouac also said, "It is because I am Beat, that is, I believe in beatitude and that God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son to it... Who knows, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?"

Beat? Make yourself at home here. The espresso is hot, the pastry is fresh, and the soup will be ready in a few minutes.

Embassies: The Hill, California, Alliance of Socialist States, Callington, The SOP, Lower Canada, Democratic Underground, Woodstock, and Manitoba.

Tags: Eco-friendly, Anti-Fascist, Socialist, Pacifist, Role Player, and Minuscule.

Greenwich Village contains 3 nations.

ActivityHistoryAdministration

Today's World Census Report

The Most Eco-Friendly Governments in Greenwich Village

The following governments spend the greatest amount on environmental issues. This may not always be reflected in the quality of that nation's environment, however.

As a region, Greenwich Village is ranked 799th in the world for Most Eco-Friendly Governments.

#NationWA CategoryMotto
1.The Commonwealth of UreyzyqIron Fist Consumerists“He who is transplanted still sustains”
2.The Giant Blue Coffee-House of Beat Poets and ArtistsLeft-wing Utopia“Everything belongs to me because I am poor.”
3.The Republic of City CamelLeft-Leaning College State“City life”

Regional Happenings

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Greenwich Village Regional Message Board

I'll start pumping out the espresso. Baker's truck will be here any minute.

The nice old lady living upstairs baked a load of fresh pastries and cakes - we've got apple pies and pineapple cheesecakes, crumb cake, crullers, and crescent rolls. She wants to do this for us a few times a week in exchange for a reduction in rent, so we're going to try it. I don't want her to get hurt or tire herself out but if it works it's a good deal for her and us.

There've been rumors of some poetry readings this weekend but nobody's contacted me yet. So we'll see. I'm thinking we should have open mike nights once in awhile to see if it works.

That sounds delicious!

Happy Thanksgiving people, later today we're helping to cater free TG dinners at the local community center for homeless people. If you can spare a couple of hours and want to lend a hand we'd appreciate it. It runs from 2pm to 5 and if you can hang on to help clean up, we'll come back to the cafe for an evening party.

I just saw some weird bearded cat, dressed up in a red suit with white fur trim, sitting on a sleigh and being pulled around Washington Square Park. Trouble is the sleigh was pulled by a couple of horses instead of 8 reindeer. Anybody know what's going on there? Makes me think Santa's franchising out or something. And anyway, he's early.

where is inspiration in another new year?
we've done this all before
and our ancestors before us
countless and nameless they are and
pointless on this point

Full of hope and hoopla
of ritual and resolution
they looked at each old year as slavery
to each new year as emancipation
and filled their lives with futility

and here we are cresting another wave of time
have we figured out yet that january 1
is just like may 18 or august 4
or will we trade our old calendar for new
and trust its empty magic for a new life?

Sheesh! all they did with the snowmageddon alert was screw up my business for the day. Good thing so many of my regulars are locals or I would've lost money on the day.

Hi, my name is Forrest Hamer, I'd like to read a poem called "A dull sound varying now and again" :

And then we began eating corn starch,
chalk chewed wet into sirup.
We pilfered
Argo boxes stored away to stiffen
my white dress shirt, and my cousin
and I played or watched TV, no longer annoyed
by the din of never cooling afternoons.

On the way home from church one fifth Sunday,
shirt outside my pants, my tie clipped on
its wrinkling collar, I found a new small can of snuff,
packed a chunk inside my cheek, and tripped
from the musky sting making my head ache,
giving me shivers knowing my aunt hid cigarettes

in the drawer under her slips,
that drawer the middle one on the left.

Another poem by Forrest Hamer. This one's called "Grace"

This air is flooded with her. I am a boy again, and my mother
and I lie on wet grass, laughing. She startles, turns to
marigolds at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red
there is in them.

When she would fall into her thoughts, we'd look for what
distracted her from us.

My mother's gone again as suddenly as ever and, seven months
after the funeral, I go dancing. I am becoming grateful.
Breathing, thinking, marigolds.

And a bit of Lawrence Ferlinghetti:

Night closed my windows and
The sky became a crystal house
The crystal windows glowed
The moon
shown through them
through the whole house of crystal
A single star beamed down
its crystal cable
and drew a plough through the earth
unearthing bodies clasped together
couples embracing
around the earth
They clung together everywhere
emitting small cries
that did not reach the stars
The crystal earth turned
and the bodies with it
And the sky did not turn
nor the stars with it
The stars remained fixed
each with its crystal cable
beamed to earth
each attached to the immense plough
furrowing our lives

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by Max Barry

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