Next door to the chain stores and mini malls are the cheap restaurants with chipped paint and handwritten signs which will never be featured in the Dining section of the Times.
Alongside the fancy renovated lofts are thousands of cramped apartments filled with books and cats and cramped studios where artists work with their hands.
Ignored by the hype and without a website or a twitter feed, these 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, and maybe that's exactly what they are.
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