The Revolt of Los Locos
Revolution belongs to eternity. Revolution was yesterday. Revolution is right now. Revolution will be mañana. Revolution and evolution is the same thing: one cannot exist without the other.
The roots are the reason all flowers bloom.
On March 21, 2014, Alex Nieto got whacked by the cops for eating a burrito in a gentrified neighborhood, Bernal Heights, San Fran, Califas, aka, Aztlan. Fifty nine gunshots cracked the heavens open, his spirit rose, and the insane angels zoomed out of the sky to start some good shit. His blood was the roots; we are the flowers.
La Pura Neta, Homes.
Two years later 10,000 flowers bloomed brightly, splashing iridescent colors on Frisco’s City Hall and on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors’ Chambers, during their formal monthly meeting. Underneath all that carved Victorian beauty and etched artisan work, the Board attempted excuses, performed mediocre rants of rhetoric:
“We can do nothing to help you.”
The locos stood strong. Surrounding the Board, we had them exactly where we wanted.
“Fire Chief Suhr!” in unison, in harmony, in that unmistakable music of the masses.
Less than a month later, he got booted cause we booted him. It wasn’t no resignation. It wasn’t no request by the mayor. It wasn’t no good old fashioned civil rights movement. The revolt of los locos: homeboys and homegirls on the frontline, taking over shit, stirring the pot, creating concoctions of craziness, and putting it all into action. That is what changed history, a history that will never be known unless a loco writes it out, puts his life on the line, and makes it reality.
Amor for Alex Nieto, motherfuckers.