Next door to the chain stores are the cheap restaurants with chipped paint and handwritten signs which will never be featured in the Dining section of the Times. Alongside the renovated lofts are thousands of cramped apartments filled with books and cats, and actual studios where artists work with their hands. Ignored by the hype, without a website, the little shops and thrift stores and squats continue to thrive—sometimes at risk of being displaced, but always at risk of being simply overlooked or dismissed. Last Supper is a love letter to these places and the people who inhabit them: the vibrant beat beneath the bullshit that gives the city its charm. Aaron Cometbus's poems read like lyrical punk songs, which maybe they are.
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