“Vandal Team Supreme! Pure street action.” Photograph by Nathaniel St. Clair, CounterPunch – CC BY 4.0

These are some photographs I’ve taken of curb communiqués that have caught my eye while walking and cycling around Portland. Some are political. Some are jokes. Some are both. Some might unlock the mysteries of the universe. Some I can’t make heads or tails of, but maybe you can decipher their code.

They are free to share and use, as long as you credit: ‘Photograph by Nathaniel St. Clair, CounterPunch – CC BY 4.0′

“WAYMO: Surveillance, Policing, Gentrification, Austerity.”

“Don’t honk at me, my Dad is dead!”

“It’s OK to be sad when things are good.”

“Enter at your own risk.”

“How to talk to police:
1) Don’t.”

“They don’t wanna see me make it!”

“Be good to tattoo and tattoo will be good to you.”

“Do not turn away from images of war that your government helped create. Each one contains an entire world no less real than your own. Each one should hurt like hell. Let your body be filled with a hunger for justice, for continued life on earth and demand it of those who claim to represent YOU!”

“We must find a way to make a world in which bombing families is impossible. CEASEFIRE NOW!”

“Capo.”

“Stay cool, dog.”

“I’M A JAZZ FREAK! Jazz Society of Oregon.”

See ya next week!

“They rode out along the fenceline and across the open pasture-land. The leather creaked in the morning cold. They pushed the horses into a lope. The lights fell away behind them. They rode out on the high prairie where they slowed the horses to a walk and the stars swarmed around them out of the blackness. They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.”

– Cormac McCarthy, All The Pretty Horses