Media Beginning To Pay More Attention To People In Crisis Situations

http://www.voiceofsandiego.org/articles/2009/11/09/public_safety/422crisis110809.txt

The link above goes to a very well written, well intentioned article concerning suicide.  We should all remember, especially getting close to the holiday season, that economic depression leads directly to personal depression.  Below is a blog I wrote about the same subject from May of last year, when it did not seem like any journalists cared at all about covering those kind of stories.

 

Because of that, and because I was right across the street from the foot bridge pictured in the VOSD article above on the morning that woman climbed up there, I wanted to republish my blog, and hopefully steer whomever reads this toward the VOSD.  I just started reading them more regula

 

 

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Entry 3- The Death Act (A Trilogy In 2 1/2 Parts)

I awoke this morning and logged onto the Internet as I normally do almost everyday. While my coffee was brewing and I was deciding whether to make eggs and toast again, or oatmeal again, or French toast again, I thought it a little curious and coincidental that early in morning before I had awoken, within hours of each incident; a person had been hit and killed by the Coaster commuter train near University City, a man had dove head first off the Harrah’s Rincon Casino hotel building, AND a man training for a triathlon in Solana Beach had been mauled and killed by a Great White shark.

I immediately stepped outside to make sure there were no thunderclouds hovering overhead, or giant meteorites heading toward earth.

As the day progressed, I occasionally checked each of these stories for further developments. The man who had been killed by the shark was immediately identified by his friends and family, some of whom were at the beach with him when the attack happened. However, this story, the one about the man being killed by a Great White, dominated the headlines in an unprecedented way over the other two, even to the point of making it onto national news sources like CNN, Yahoo!, and others.

The person who had been hit and killed by the Coaster commuter was more like a bi-line story to the actual major event that took place- thousands of other commuters were stranded at the train station waiting for the tracks to be cleared, the investigation to be complete, and then for other commuter trains to come and pick them up. It even snarled traffic in the area as unaware drivers-by were slowed by the throngs of news helicopters that had showed up to film the train sitting dejectedly unmoving on the tracks, and also by the rush of stranded passengers that were desperately trying to catch buses or cabs to make it to work on time.

The identity of the person who was hit by the train was so obscured by news about traffic that the articles I read did not even mention if it was a man or woman. By the way, what exactly does “hit” by a train mean? Bumped? Thrown? Dragged? Possibly, the body was so horribly disfigured they could not even distinguish the sex of the victim. Something so horrible could only be smoothed over by reporting on these bastards that couldn’t get to work on time. Who wants to bet there was at least one person stranded on that train platform calling in to work with his ace in the hole excuse?

“I’m trying to get to work, but a person was hit by the train. Don’t believe me? Turn on the news. Yeah, okay. I’ll just see you Monday. You have a good weekend, too.”
The man who had thrown himself off the casino hotel to his death was hardly written about in the news at all. A casual reader of the news would think this just a coincidence because of these two other attention-grabbing catastrophes that happened to occur on the same exact day. However, if you follow the news like I do, you will notice a pattern news agencies have with reporting suicides. They are normally only briefly mentioned, and it is almost impossible to get a follow up story concerning who the person was or why they did it. Now, on a day like today, reporters can use the excuse that covering that story was not first priority since all this other shit was going down at the same time.

There have been times, not that long ago actually, where suicides seem to simply disappear from the headlines after only appearing suddenly. After a police dog fell from the Coronado Bridge, with the man who the police were trying to apprehend, there was a great uproar of news coverage about this heroic dog and, equally intense, the fact that the man who took the dog with him off the edge actually survived the fall. But does anyone else beside me remember it was only a week or two later that two men jumped and died from the same bridge within one day of each other? Who were they? What were there names? Why didn’t anyone try to stop them? You know, what? I don’t know, either. Because the press hardly covered it. When the K-9 who had died had his funeral, complete with bagpipes and a gun salute, it made front-page news.
It is a fact that the Coronado Bridge, at least in 2004 and previous years, normally ranks third in the continental United States for bridge jumpers. But what is truly bewildering about this is that it is not a walking bridge. The Golden Gate in San Fran is number one, and if you have ever been there you know that it is easily accessible by foot, and there is absolutely no barrier to stop a person from plunging straight down into the bay. I was there with my family one time and a person pulled up in a car, stopped, and jumped right out on the ocean side where there isn’t even pedestrian access to the bridge. We didn’t see it, but afterward it was pretty obvious what had happened. Helicopters were everywhere, the Coast Guard boats were everywhere, and the police had to go out and move the person’s car into the parking lot and search it for a suicide note.

I don’t want to make any big statement here in this essay about media coverage of suicide except to say when very famous celebrities commit it, or die mysteriously full of so many drugs even an elephant would have had a heart attack, the media goes crazy for it. A celebrity suicide on the front page of a newspaper is like a shining stack of flapjacks smothered in butter and syrup and laid out on the table for a gang of hungry lumberjacks to tear into and demolish.
But when ordinary, unknown citizens take their own lives, even for political causes, the media sweeps it under the doormat like a pile of dust that just won’t fit into the dustpan no matter how times you try sweep it up. Does the media think it is protecting other suicidal people, or other citizens from suicidal people, by shuffling these stories into the press and then out as quickly as possible, while Heath Ledger’s “mystery” death by ten prescription drugs and three hundred eight-balls of cocaine is thrust into the limelight as if we are all supposed to be searching for a happy ending to a story that has already reached it’s conclusion?

The only happy ending to suicide is to survive it, fix your life, and move forward into life in a positive fashion. Sadly, that does not happen often enough, even when people survive their attempts at killing themselves. The suicide survivor is pushed into the smallest corner of his household like that unwanted piece of furniture inherited from a distant relative that you cannot immediately get rid of for sentimental reasons, but are definitely not planning to keep forever.
Possibly, no media coverage of suicide survivors is a really, really good thing. The last thing a suicidal person needs after almost dying is to have some assholes camera shoved in his face. However, in an age when psychologists and psychiatrists are on the cusp of more than one breakthrough in treating mental illness; isn’t a good idea for us all to sit up and recognize that when people behave strangely, threaten suicide, become morose and depressed in an outwardly anti-social way, that we all are a little responsible for the outcome of their suicidal tendencies? And isn’t it a little revealing on a day like this with these three tragedies that the one the media gloms onto is a rare occurrence, so obscure and unthreatening in it’s nature that a group of surfers immediately paddled out at the same beach to catch their dawn patrol waves even before the dead swimmers body was carted off to the coroner?

The media, and society in general, love to hype on the unreal fear of events that are real, but that actually happen in our world so infrequently it is ridiculous to fear them everyday. But suicide does happen everyday. And often times it happens to the same segments of our, or any other society, over and over in such a repetitious way it might really save lives and benefit our entire society by taking notice as to who it as who jumped off the bridge today. And, how often do pedestrians accidentally get “hit” by trains? Were there two suicides today? One from a hotel rooftop and the other miles away, but only hours apart, underneath a train?

That is important and it does matter a lot- But what becomes the bigger story is the traffic surrounding the train station where the dead body lies, and this other event at a beach that happens less often every year than people being killed by vending machines.

Bless the souls that paddled out after the shark attack to surf. They want to show everyone that it is nature and shit happens. But if they waited two months, or even three, or five years, the same thing is as likely to happen then, on any random day, as it did today.

And maybe we should also thank the jumper for not being a shooter. If your place of business closes for a few hours, the traffic is a little slowed, you are inconvenienced a little bit- that is less concern for you than the family of the suicide victim who will have to go the morgue to identify the body. That is, if she or he even has anyone close enough to him or her to go and do that sort of thing.

Sunt Lacrimme Rerum

Universal themes are hardly recognized
By people with issues so personally daunting
The blinders they wear of fear, anger, tension-
Seem to make them invisible to the world.

Empathy and sorrow feel so similar at times
We run the danger of becoming apathetic, and
At the whims of cruelly ordained non-sympathizers.

I can tell which phase someone is in their sorrow,
Recovery stage or hilt of anger.

When those with a crutch can arrive on time and
Outdo in competition healthier opponents, they have
Arrived at the final, positive step of their self-improvement.

It is a coin toss, though, with those people healthy, or not,
Who can always find an excuse to live a minimal experience,
Instead of, a rich and full one.

Never give someone who is capable of something a way out of it,
If they did not request a way out.

There is an illusion in our world
For those involved with suffering,
That a majority of our populace
Is unfeeling, uncaring,
And without remorse.

The truth I have found in this,
Is that the people who ignore or belittle others pain
Are the ones who are most fearful of it.
They believe if they feel empathy toward people suffering,
That suffering will rub off on them, in a kind of mythical,
Yet modern, fear of lepers, or of warts on toads.

I know, and I can tell when people do not believe
I am normal, or sane.

And yet, they are the ones locked behind charcoal eyes
That have not been ignited with the fact that anyone
Can appear strange, abnormal, or obscene if enough
Other people simply agree to believe it is so.

-I toss out handkerchiefs occasionally,
To the pitifully small, fearful members of our community
Who have rallied around their normality like geeks
Around a chickens carcass.

-And, if they toss coins or other useful items
Back at me, that is better than the handful of vomit
I was handed when I believed myself healthy, and capable,
And they did not believe me.

We must remember, while remaining empathetic, those of us who
Carry bags of pod seeds around with us everywhere we go,
That revulsion is really the least of our worries, in a world
Lacking of forgiveness, waiting to take advantage of the weak,
The weak-minded, the faint bodied, and the back-stabbed.

Revulsion at sorrow is a sin to be forgiven.

But, remember Hamlet, there is a man behind the curtain
Who is listening to you.

And, your choice should not be so difficult.

-To be, To be known-

We always want to be known to the world, but especially,
To those who did not have faith in us.

The Way Her Eyes Dart Away- Poem

"Here I am, an old man in a dry month......"
T.S. Eliot; first line from, Gerontion.

I can tell, by the way her eyes dart away,
That this, our first date, will be
The last.

Sometimes, with certain women, I have incredibly
Good timing and luck.

Other times, very recently,
The luck is on but the timing
Couldn't be worse.

I first met her almost a decade ago,
I was attracted to her, of course,
As everyone was, who met her.

That first time I saw her, I thought,
Hoped to believe,
That the look she gave me meant,
She was also attracted to me.

Less than a year ago, she finally agreed,
To have a drink with me.

She sat across from me, at the table we chose,
Looking more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

The timing was off, though.

I was out of work, without a stable
Place to live, and was paying for our date
Out of the meager unemployment check
The state of California had blessed me with.

And, I could tell,
By the way her eyes darted away,
That the timing was incredibly bad,
For her to ever date me again,
In regards to her situation.

This version of me, that women see
Through their realistic scope
Of vision, has only existed
Recently.

I am the same model of person
That was passed a note in third grade
On a scrap of torn off crayon
Wrapper.

I am the same model of person
That is not afraid to meet parents
On a holiday, birthday, or just
Because.

I am the same model of person
That despised the one-night stand,
And would prefer with women
A kinship over an absolution.

I was the one women spoke to
About past abuse.

I was the one who showed up
After he and she had faltered.

Their eyes dart away, though,
When they learn I am so poor
I cannot even afford an apartment.

And, am I any different?

I can't afford a cat or dog
To live with me in my car.

So, that is why, my eyes dart away
When I am paying for a woman's eat
And drink, while she has a job, and
A home, and I do not.

I was the one, once, a long time ago,
That pretty women paid for
Because the bartender was busy,
And faithful, planning his wedding
With his future fiancé.

I am not disfigured, or diseased,
But that is the look I get-
A subtle, downturned glance
Of sympathy and disgust
When I dare to tread within
Any establishment, or I am present
With any person
That has not considered,
Or been aware of
The tentative nature of life
That leaves us exposed
To judgment, harassment, and sometimes
Sympathy from our peers.

It is the sympathy, though,
That is most dangerous.

We cannot tell if those that sympathize
Truly want to help, or if they are
Easing their own conscience, while
Looking for away to escape from us.

Notes on the Impermanance of Sustainable Being

This is a 5 part poem. And, for some reason, I could not get this stupid blog to type Italic. So, Italic words are in CAPS. Thanks!

1.

I went out searching
Native San Diego fauna
-In a wilderness of
Imported trees, man-made lakes
And irregular architecture.

Man and his cars,
And unnatural roadways
That led those automobiles
To their regrettable destinations
Were impossible to avoid-
Like a dream we have that takes us
Back to events we wish to forget.

In this search,
Walking about without a home,
Within the boundaries
Of a city I call my home,
I came to know of an owl
That believed I was a wolf-

And she drove the doves away from me

-Those old friends that knew my name,
But did not know me well enough
To distinguish fact from myth.

2.

I knew when the Mockingbird
Did not answer my taunts
That I was not trusted, or
Able to be invited in.

-Now, all the birds are a flutter-
Afraid of earthquakes and
Rain that comes infrequently
But causes flash floods on
Middle plateaus not used to storm.

-Bless the Framers of this city
For importing roots that keep
Drainage at a minimum level
Where the gophers and rodents
Make their homes.

This city is a folly revisited
-And, if you do not know
That history,
You are wasting your time
Lecturing me.-

They built a damn and a lake
We can fish and hunt on.
They redirected a river,
And created plots of land
The millionaires could invite us to.

-If they were drudged, it would be found
That the workman's sweat and tears and blood,
Are older than the mud and fossil seashells
That cake the layers of sediment beneath.

3.

The owl again
-I've seen her three or four times-
She gives me warning, and
Does not allow me to capture her feathers.

Whatever she is hunting for
Is in great abundance-
She is larger than a hawk-
And just as territorial.

I walk through the golf course at night,
Searching out trails between the sprinklers,
Low spots in the rough where cold air hides,
And counting the number of Sage weeds
That have slipped up, unnoticed by the groundskeeper,
Onto what is meant to be a perfect lawn.

-One night, a small group of people
Had brought a radio, and beer,
Out onto one of the greens.

They had a dance party there, purposely
Leaving divots in the soft, low cut grass.

I sat and watched, and laughed,
And drank my own beer.

Possibly, their house party had been broken up
By cops. So, their revenge on neighbors,
Was to ensure the last little bit of the game
Played out improperly.

-And, that was when the white owl,
Terrifying in her dominance
Of the night sky- Swooped down
One, twice, three times
So near my head, I could feel
The vibration of her wings
Throughout my body.

4.

Ringlets of Sage and cactus scrub,
And the minerals so diverse,
That contrast the sandstone
And red-rock dirt.

Green and Brown. Green and Brown.

Prickly pears cry out- Red!
I am edible! No one harvests
The fruit of thorns, anymore!

Somewhere, in a gardener's
Canvas lawnmower bag, mixed in
With grass blades, and dandelion heads,
Is some specimen of seed, or flower pod,
Only allowed to exist if protected.

-A wise man once told me,
That if we were smart,
We would tear out all the Jacaranda,
And Eucalyptus,
And plant apple, peach, and lemon trees, instead.

-But humans take their hunger for granted.

-We drink coffee for breakfast,
And other liquids for dessert.

-Even in places of worship, or at the University,
Fast food wrappers litter sacred lawns.

-Meals eaten so quickly, by spoiled children,
They do not even have time, or energy,
To regurgitate the trash into the proper receptacle.

-If it was Spring, the yellow and violet
Blooms of wildflowers would creep up
Seemingly unnaturally, between the
Bougainvillea thorns.

-But, it is not Spring- Autumn,
Has overcome us, so we sit and wait
For the parched Santa Ana winds,
And late November rains.

-I have noticed, lovers ignore the seasons,
And are overwhelmed with each other's
Passions, no matter the weather.

-At least, as far as people are concerned,
That is one thing that is truly beautiful
About our existence here on Earth.

5.

Everyone wants, and claims need
For something permanent to grasp onto.

-But, if the plates that hold the continents
Together, can shift violently,
And, if the sky above us swirls
Delusions, instead of oxygen
Into the air around us, and if,
The emperor IS wearing clothes,
But the populace has sealed
Their eyelids with bigoted parchment,

-Then, it can be known, as it always
Comes to pass; that not since Pharaohs
And Caesars held public executions
As worship and sport, have humans
Changed their foolish mentality
Of following the mob into fields of fire,
Or, off of steep cliffs into valleys
Of broken glass.

-If an animal, such as an owl,
Requests of me to move from her
Nesting ground, I comply
Without complaint, or regret.

-It is the selfishness and greed,
Of wealthier men that tolerated me,
As long as, I had a dollar to spend,
But now spit at me because
My poverty overcame me, that will
Always bring me back to their doorstep,

-Left hand outstretched in defense,
Right hand hidden-

So, the bastards will not be able to see
If it is a weapon I am going to draw,
Or, a small pebble of truth.

-Let those men decide themselves,
If it is war they want, or worse,
The revealment of their tiny morality,

-Displayed for all to see in their
In fractions of law, valueless businesses,
And rape, torture, disfigurement
Of their own souls,

-And, the stains of their personal histories
They left behind for future generations
To sneer at- HOW PETTY. HOW PETTY.

HOW ABSOLUTELY WORTHLESS, AND MEANINGLESS
THESE MEN'S LIVES WERE.

It's My Birthday!

And, below is my favorite blog I have ever written, which first appeared on Myspace, and now ends up here, I believe, for the second time. It is the only thing I have ever posted on a blog that purposely imitates Hunter T!





My Review of Angels and Airwaves

I had previously promised my dear friend MIKE that I would write a review of the new and first Angels and Airwaves album. I had not purchased it myself but acquiring the CD was easy. I had a friend of mine burn me a copy that he had burned from another acquaintance who had stolen it from the Borders in Mission Valley. With the CD in hand and with a sick day off of work I sat to listen. I hit play, heard the first magical sounds and three hours later awoke on the kitchen floor in a pool of my own sweat and drool. The CD was skipping and all I could hear was Tom’s voice repeating over and over, “Ogathractseadnelad! Ogathractseadnelad! Ogathractseadnelad!” It sounded like he was speaking Latin backwards and I had only heard that one other time in my life.

Obviously I would need to give this another try. I loaded a needle with pure adrenalin and shot it directly into my heart. Nothing could make me sleep now. I leaned over, hit play and that is when the confusion began.

I will try to recall the events as they happened-

Heart thumping. The adrenaline hit my brain. The music wound around me like the arms of a Caterpillar. Not the bug. Like a giant fucking Caterpillar wrecking ball. My heart was racing ahead of the music. “Syncopation Tom!” I yelled. I began beating my chest with my arms like a chimpanzee. “Syncopation! Syncopation! Syncopation!” I fled the kitchen into the living room. The mail had just arrived. The only thing I had received was a political flyer announcing that Ron Roberts was running for County Supervisor. Suddenly everything made sense. The NSA was collecting a list of every phone call made in this country. Bush and his Nazi regime were detonating Nukes in the Nevada desert. Meanwhile, future voters were skipping out on the poles in the attempt to get their naïve, ignorant little paws on this CD, or the bands concert ticket. At some point every musician and record producer and label exec had decided it was okay if the government slapped ‘Explicit Lyrics’ warning label on their packaging. What was next? Book burnings? Public hangings? How did I know by simply having this CD here in its illegally duplicated form did not warrant me a death sentence?

“Zappa!” I screamed. “We need you! WE NEED YOU! ZAPPA! ZAPPA! ZAPPA!” I began dancing around the living knocking things over. Quickly I ran into the bedroom and grabbed my wooden mallet I use for home defense. First I smashed the television, because THEY can see you from inside there. Then I smashed my computer and all the lightbulbs in the house. Finally, with great pride and acknowledgement of my actions, I smashed my stereo and all my CD’s and all my records (except Doc Watson, I took him with me). And then I fled…..

I am writing this now from the main branch of the San Diego Library downtown where I have taken refuge. I have burned my driver’s license, thrown out all forms of identity except my library card. I am invisible. No one will ever be able to find me. I am going to take a bus out of town and find Dan Auerbach and hand him my Doc Watson record and say, “Because you understand.”

Peace out! It's all for fun!

New Book On Amazon Now!

http://www.amazon.com/Three-Novellas-Ben-McFadden/dp/1849910170/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1254962104&sr=1-1

This link above goes to the exact Amazon.com site where my newest book can be purchased.

I recommend buying it here soon, if you were planning to buy it, because it is possible the publisher would raise the price, if he believed a lot of people were interested in it.

Thanks!

Poem- Canyon of Graves

This is a poem I wrote during the Bush Administration, after it was obvious that the Iraq War was out of control, and that government eavesdropping on private citizens was not being covered by the media to the extent that the American people needed them to be. I have this recorded, also, on an audio CD. This poem never got much attention from anybody I sent it to, but maybe now is the time, we should all discuss how it was a few people in this country managed to blackmail their way into power, and destroy any major disent of opinion.


Canyon of Graves

1

White Horse
Behind your cloak the shrouded hedge stones
Of those that swore their life to you.
In your front lawn
Their mother’s demand explanation.

White Horse
You owe your life to dethroned kings.
A trench of gold was your reward
For the sacrifice you made
In your promises that were half-truths.

White Horse
Demons smile down upon you.
You believe God speaks to you.
Delusions of grandeur are a prophet’s downfall
And a psychotic’s excuse.

White Horse
Self-betterment is not necessarily self-preservation.
Your revenge was to return to Holy Land
And install a canyon of graves.
You ran rivers of blood into our living rooms,

White Horse,
Tapped off the bloodline of future generations.
Your mercy was in not inspiring total obliteration.
In peaceful countries evil exists. You chose
To extinguish evil of your elder’s creation.

White Horse….into the street!
Leave your jeweled tower and see what is written on the wall!
The faggots and the terminally ill beg you to see them as human!
Your friends truly are your worst enemies!
You etched a stain of a temporary success…

White Horse….into the street!
Writers of history are planning how to forget you!
Your mouthpiece contradicts your true intentions!
Your judges are led unwillingly into the limelight!
Your cross reference is a broken place in history…

White Horse….into the street!
In times of tragedy great men rise they do not follow….
Your ear against the wall, eye in keyhole…
The fist of democracy is a pen in hand…
Not a loaded gun!

…into the street!
Lick the wounds of the faithful from bleeding hearts!
A question, a debate is not an act of treason!
We were there at the beginning, marching…
We were there at the beginning, questioning…



…into the street!
You manipulated facts like a pervert offering candy!
…into the street!
You let a name slip so no one would ever doubt you!
…into the street!
You secretly enjoyed the tragedies of those less fortunate!
…into the street!
Bombs dropped accidentally in self-rewarding places!
White Horse….into the street!
Face this fact-You do not truly deserve everything given to you.

Wait a minute!

Okay, I've been following the DEA's latest, greatest escapade into patient-privacy rights (Which is really what the dispensary raid is all about. They confiscated ALL patient records, along with the LEGAL medical marijuana.), and this new update from Sign On San Diego below, regarding the County of San Diego putting a ban on medical marijuana dispensaries, just blows my mind.

If you did not know, almost immediately after voters in California legalized medical marijuana in the state (1996), the DEA went Nutso Christo into raiding anyone that attempted to dispense the narcotic, and, did several unethical, albeit illegal things, in regards to trying to find out who was receiving prescriptions for weed, and which doctors were prescribing it.

While the City of San Diego threw up it's arms, for the most part (because, we all know, the City has WAY too many other problems to enforce this shit, full time), the Snobs at the County dove immediately into a lawsuit to prohibit dispensing of marijuana, outside City boundaries. This resulted in a very expensive, drawn out lawsuit, that FAILED.

So, concerned taxpayer, now that the County also has declared itself fiscally barren, how much more taxpayer money should be spent to lock up "drug dealers" that prescribe Ganja to terminally ill people, or people in chronic pain?

Here is my opinion, if anyone is interested, and please read the article below, as well.

A. The Dickhead Enforcement Agency is obsolete. We have the Border Patrol, the FBI, the great Homeland Scrutiny agency, and soon, possibly, our friends from the CIA coming in to work domestically. The feds should save themselves some money, and tell the ex-N.A. drug cons at the Defunct Enforcement Agency to take a long hike into a never ending wasteland of redundancy.

B. Marijuana should be legal. Advocates made the mistake of thinking the medical marijuana gig was a great first step toward taking the negative stigmas away from the drug. Fuck it. I don't even like it that much, but since I'm not employed, I may just start smoking it anyway, to say Fuck You! That's why!

C. There may be a proposition on an upcoming voter ballot (I believe this November, if not, possibly next summer. Clarify anyone?) to give the Board of County Fuckhead Supervisors term limits. Currently, they hold their positions for life, like wee little monarchs over a shit heep of a kingdom.


County board continues medical-marijuana ban
2:00 a.m. September 17, 2009 [2 A.M. WTF?]

San Diego County supervisors yesterday extended their ban on medical-marijuana dispensaries in unincorporated areas.

Early last month, the board adopted an emergency moratorium on storefront dispensaries, and county lawyers were given 45 days to write a law that would meet state guidelines.

But the staff told supervisors they need until the end of July 2010 to come up with appropriate language.

[Is this even a complete story? Jeeezzzzusss! It is not legal, by any means, for a city, or county government to adopt laws that go against and ENTIRE state-wide law, voted into effect By The People. These people are fucking jerks!]

Little Karmas Pushed Out Into The Night- Final Sections 11-12

11-

You saw me-



In the park collecting cans



Out of the trash-



The same day we had both learned



Of the death of a mutual friend.

They tell you,



The only place I shop is the liquor store-



But, I can't store bread or eggs



In the trunk of my car-



So, I depend on your cookstove Sunday mornings.

I go sniping partly out of desperation-



But, also, out of protest-



I refuse to quit when I don't want to-



Ultimately, I spend more money



On gasoline than nicotine.

When I got my paycheck,



The waitress was hesitant



To serve me the meal I ordered,



And the smoke shop was unsure



If I could really afford that



More expensive bag of tobacco.

If this is the kind of reputation



That proceeds me, it is better than



The man who refuses to stoop down



And pick up recycled waste, refuses to



Slink beneath that line of poverty,



Even though, he has no money.

-He is in the bank tellers' line,



With a handwritten note,



A bulge protruding from his belt,



And a shamed, slightly dazed



Expression on his face.

-Walkout into the park, brother,



Before you begin playing crime games



With people already prepared for



Your arrival.

-The city is watching with eyes



Behind a complacent face.



-All of it's desperate citizens



Can be proven to be insane.

-You must first taste the fire



Before completely consuming it.

-You mist first know



What is on the other side of the river,



Before swimming across it.

-The Buddhists worship a type of hyper-



aggressive Macaque that they let roam



Around certain temples and shrines.

-Buddha's smile becomes deepened,



When you arrive for a picnic,



And must fight off the sacred beasts



Underneath crippled archways and crumbled



Plazas made of stone.

12-

Phantoms of long forgotten souls



Float in the air above 163 into



Downtown, criss-crossing the freeway



On the northern and southern sides



Of the Laurel Street Bridge.

Phantoms and Ghouls have ceased


To frighten me, since I first met them.
It is man, and human creature
That forces a negative energy
Around seemingly peaceful places.


Hatred can be summoned, and con notated


And subtly thrown in amongst a mass
Of people already agitated with one another.
I am always forced to pause, and take notice
When this happens.



Mob scenes and riots could, in my opinion,
Be avoided and easily dispersed,
If a few more people walked away,
Took a reign of efficiency, instead of chaos,
And, realized other's lives equaled their own.


It is in the deep, deep night, when


Hounds astray cry foul at meals non-existent,
And Phantoms remind us of the souls
Stripped from their bodies unnaturally.

I stake my claim in this land

In whatever continent I wander,

That I am peaceful enough

To never seek unjustified revenge,

And thoughtful enough

To give the wounded spirit a push

On beyond troubled times.



It makes no sense to me

That people never trained to hunt

Can all of a sudden become predators

Without first learning of remorse.



The Devil's helper is always his advocate.



And, it is with great remorse and sadness

That I see people now picking up

The torch to be used as a sword

And the cross to be used as a demonic symbol.



I am almost a phantom or ghoul, myself.



I return to places long forgotten by me,

Neighborhoods I have known in my youth,

Where many remember my name,

But hardly recognize me.



I am too lazy to bend spoons,

And I have no power over brooms

Or pickaxes that sweep or carve

Out safe, clean trenches for me.



We left this world over a decade ago,

And went out wandering, never expecting

To return.



The world is still here, though.

And we have grown beyond the

Comfortable facade of our youth.



We take wisdom from those

Already scarred, already broken,

Already risen up and over it.



It is not a steel boot or shortened

Leash we fear in this decade of war,

And poverty.



It is an uncontrollable revolt

Of men who believe they are masters

Of other men, and women who were never

Allowed to question male dominion.



My conscience does not allow me

To observe suffering and not lend a helping hand.



It should be known, as well, that my stubborn nature

Does not allow false guidance, or discordant

Wisdom to penetrate the leaves

I scatter about myself-

For the sake of remembrance,

Forethought, and self-defense.



-A voice whispers in your ear,

Warning you of danger.



-A hole is in your back,

Representing the eyes that follow you.



-Is it real danger?



-Are you just paranoid?



-The way is the way-



You can only fight against it,

Travel with it, or become so astray

Shepherds from unknown flocks will call out

Beckoning you with promises of green pastures,

In a land we all know is parched and dried out

By our unforgiving sun.

Little Karmas Pushed Out Into The Night- Sections 9-10

9-

They say prophets and Saints

Are cursed because common people

Blame them for common ills.

Buddha has made friends recently

With Gargoyles and Medusas

Because He knows the world's impatience

Does not distract them from their purposes-

For bad, or good.

Ancient Icons have once again

Taken their time into great passing-

Common people once again cursed

With the absence of any single entity

To blame.

-The christian God still pounds His gavel

-Demanding justice for sin and sacrifice

From followers. Occultists that subscribe

To theologies of their own creation,

Skirt the fringes of society, allowing

The rest of us to guess when it is

Their ice caps will crack, or shudder.

-Nothingman appears at your door

Asking simple questions, with

Eternity in his eyes.

-We are beholden to four basic elements

No matter how many others' chemists,

Or engineers invent for each other.

-The true mystery of modern existence,

That hovers on peoples' tongues like

A permanent forethought-

Where does time begin again

After the end of many eras that

Constantly seemed to be recycled?

-Demanding your next paycheck,

Or even equal treatment and respect,

Is pretty much the same thing

These days.

10-

I've always loved Southern California alleyways-

An unnamed street running parallel

With the named, overused, real street.

I've seen things in alleyways-

Lost souls crouching for a smoke,

Away from scrutinizing eyes-

Broken bottles next to dumpsters,

And trail of blood leading away-

Everything and anything can and will

Happen in an alleyway that happens

In any other place in the world.

-If alleyways did not smell like piss,

You would suppose the city you are in

Has enough public restrooms available

For anyone who needs to use them.

-More trash and waste are collected

On a monthly basis from the dumpsters

Lining most alleyways, than the amount

Of valuable items a person will ever own.

-There is almost no sewer drainage

In most alleyways. Which means, by the end

Of summer, you can take samples

Of the exact type of grime the city

Would not want on it's real streets.

-Alleyways are great shortcuts,

To avoid normal traffic delays.

-And also, a great place to hide in shadow

If the flashbeams of cars

Become overly repetitive.

-I have found enough spare change,

Once or twice, in an alleyway,

To buy a soda, and candy bar.

-I wonder if the person working at

The convenience store washes his/her

Hands before eating his/her lunch after

Touching that spent money.

-Last night, I came across a young lady,

Sitting in an alleyway, her back against a wall,

Tears and eyeliner streaked her face.

-She was so quiet, so embarrassed,

That she was almost invisible- Like

A small, plastic grocery bag drifted

In the wind, away from whatever

Home it believed it had belonged to.

I sat with her and shared a cigarette,

And offered solace in the form

Of non-judgement.

She stopped crying, thanked me

For the grit, and told me

Friends were on the way

To help her, and take her home.

-I would have liked to have spoken

With her longer, and given her

Another smoke- But, it was just

Getting dark, and I had not yet had dinner-

-And, I know there are vampires

In that particular alleyway. So, it

Was safer for me to leave the young lady

To her own destiny or fate,

Than to change my plans for the evening.

Little Karmas Pushed Out Into The Night- Sections 6-8

6-

What do you do with the last

Three dollars in spare change

That you are carrying?

-Place it temptingly on the sidewalk,

Next to where you have made bed

For the night-

Hoping that no matter how desperate,

Or deranged, a person is,

They will steal the coins, instead

Of your blood or flesh.

-White collar criminals toast champagne

When a member of their Board

Dies, goes insane, or is otherwise

Incapacitated.

They had been stealing from him for years,

And now, with him entirely out of the way,

The profits he earned can be divided,

Squandered, and hidden from his heirs.

-It seems to me, if spare change can

Keep you safe enough in order to sleep well,

That the millionaires who act like their blood money

Is holy water, have forgetten at least one or two

Of the basic princibles of Humanity.

-But, those kind of people rule the world.

Who am I to question them?

7-

You asked me for a blanket-

I had to pause, not instantly

Remembering if I had a blanket to spare,

Or not.

What I wanted from you,

Was much more complex- Possibly,

Impossible for you to give now,

Or ever.

I wanted your story- To know

How it was you had ended up

Sitting where we were- Cold,

Tired, and disheveled.

I don't think, at some time in the future,

You wouldn't mind discussing

Where you were from, what happened

In between, and how you had ended up

Here.

But, you were exhausted- So much so,

I excused myself, to go to my car,

Roll one more cigarette, and fetch

For you the small fleece blanket,

I remembered I had, and hardly used.

It seemed to me, you needed a lot more

Than just a blanket.

Since, I had given you the only one,

I did not use regularly, I hoped

It was enough to keep you a little

Warmer, and safer than you had

Been before.

-In the morning, I trekked back out

To your camp.

-You were almost invisible

-At the trunk of a tree

-An aura of confidence, and security

At your back.

-And, you were sleeping so well,

Not even my clumsy trodding

On the ground could wake you up.

-That made me happy, so I left

-Feeling safer, and more secure for myself

Because you were.

8-

Little Karmas

Pushed out into the night

Excuse the sun's morning rays

For revealing the existence

Of the Garden Spider's trap.

The Lady Killer borrows other predator's

Web for a few hours

-To rest, feed a little on the Widow's remains,

And, prepare for journies not mapped,

Or written.

If a human can read nature symbols

Well enough to know when rabbits

Feel safe, and birds are angry

-Then hovering through the miniscule

Designations of where we have allowed

Nature to exist, may grant you safe passage,

At least.

-I found a Wasp's nest underneath

The dirt next to a few shade trees.

-So, even the Wasps have found

Solitude in the dirt and mud

Beneath grass and gopher trails.

-It amazes me that most people

Feel safer in their car, home,

Or even on a city street than

A canyon or park nature preserve.

-But, I have stood five feet

From a Coyote, and I knew

If I did not threaten him,

He would not harm me.

-The Lady Killer can walk

Right out of the grass into

Your bathroom if it thinks

There is worthy prey there.

-The Wasps can come out of the mud

And nest above your front door.

-Snakes often find shade underneath

Patio chairs and tables.

-Even Squirrels, and Sparrows

Are known for intimidating

People out of crumbs of food.

-I laid to nap before sunset,

In the shade on a hill facing

East. Leaves crackled and fell at will,

Ants made a temporary home in my socks,

A scared little Rabbit came out to say "hi,"

And then disappeared into a bramble of spiney cactus.

-I awoke from my nap suddenly,

Not distracted at all from nature,

But because two other humans

Had found my trail, and were walking

Noisely above me.

-But, just like me, they were only

Looking for a place to rest away

From everyone else.

Little Karmas Pushed Out Into The Night- Sections 1-5

1-

Saw three contraries

-Running against traffic

Swaying my mind, once again

Against the tide of everyone on time.

2-

The moon last night disappeared.

A sun seeker who had lost time

Came out to try and rise it from her mind

-She froze time three hours long

Accepting dark as dark- Promised sunshine

When the energy tangled in her hair

Escaped it's protective shroud.

3-

Return unwillingly to the soup kitchen line-

I breathe a sigh of relief at the amount of people

Impatiently milling about while waiting

To be let in-

The food must be at least decent

For them to form a line, however hungry they are,

In the violent heat that causes dehydration,

And anger- Even to those you love.

4-

In a man's mid-thirties-

No kids, never married-

Finding a love interest is difficult.

Some would say money is most important-

But even a blown out junky,

Can force a whore into sex.

The importance of other intangible things

Seems more important than money.

Women want stability more than anything.

And, they want to experience new things,

Sometimes recklessly.

I've been stable, reckless- All at the same time.

I suppose continuance, without remorse

For the shortcomings I, and she,

Are certain to find with one another

Would be a kind of perfection

That seems unattainable, in this world,

Or, the world we perceive to live in.

5-

You drove yourself mad on purpose-

Forced yourself to beg from people

You knew had less money than you-

You only drank water for ten hours-

Knowing dehydration kills faster

Than starvation-

You walked over pennies

People threw on the ground-

Hearing your Father's voice-

"A penny saved....

I found you fourteen hours later-

Beyond yourself- Possibly hallucinating,

Confronting the Devil for his sins,

And, literally, tearing your hair

Out of it's follicles that would not release it.

I sat and watched as you made amends

With yourself, and your lost God,

And your foreclosed upon property,

And your scarf made for fashion,

Not warmth.

And, I wanted to hug you,

When you stretched your arms out,

Seeming to need comfort.

And, I came to love you,

When, after you rested a bit,

You got up, onto your feet,

Composed yourself, and told me

I did not need to follow you-

And, we would certainly meet again-

Since, we are always here,

And, so far, we have always

Made it home safely- Not,

Without any help- But also,

Without the overabundance of a watchful hand

Steering us in directions we did not intend

To travel to.

A Sign Of Temporary Apocalypse- The Eclipse Wormhole!

As some of you may know, Wednesday, July 22, through Thursday, August 6, the earth has entered a transitional, proto-planetary phase known as an Eclipse Wormhole.

For a lot of people,this phase of inter-galactic mayhem may mean nothing. But, for those of us diagnosed as being "permanently weird," at a very young age, this literal window through time can have a bizarre, if not downright revolutionary effect on our lives.

We may believe we have super powers. Or, we may believe we are becoming werewolves, even if we are unable to grow nasty amounts of greasy hair all over our bodies.

Either way, a warning should be noted- If you are one of the many people diagnosed with "permanent normalness," you should stay away from us creepy, deranged, weird people.

I have decided for this decades para-normal eclipse wormhole event, not to remain earth bound in safe, warm Liken shell.

I have pre-paid for a U.F.O. flight to the planet Zebar, where I have heard both eclipses, the first a total lunar eclipse of the sun, the second a partial solar eclipse of the moon, can be viewed with equal luster.

The solar eclipse that took place yesterday, could not be viewed from the Western Hemisphere. This makes werewolves angry, especially when thy are not prepared for the event.

This happened to me, personally, many years ago when the earth's minor and major poles reversed, flipping the planet upside down on it's axis. I was growing fangs, which is very painful, and wiping my newly grown wolves hair out of my eyes, saying things, like, "The moon isn't even full! What the fuck?"

This time, though, I am fully prepared for this disastrous, celestial event. I have never visited Zebar, however, I have heard the spa is nice, and if weather allows, there is even a floating bar in the pool.

So, people of normality, it is recommended to stay indoors as much as possible, wear silver jewelry at all times, and, if possible, encase your entire home in aluminum foil.

Yours truly,

Liken Benny (Zebar Bound!)

Prose Poem For The Holders Of Magik

1-

Shapeshifters bold become hunting animals- A wolf, a coyote, maybe; even a bear.

In death, a Shaman becomes one great Bison to feed an entire village.

The way it works in Wicca- When Sorcerers break rules to create evil curses- Witches become irritating bugs- With plastic eyes and needled spines for arms.

-A harmless mammal roams up from below the wharf and is immediately scrutinized by Lizards and Insects that survive by exporting fear- There is no savior for humans trapped between warring tribes armored with ancient magik and infected skin.

If these things we see are signs of the future- Then all is lost to the non-believers

-We have taught you how it is to be good and we have warned you of the consequence of speaking with a child's tongue in this world of tentative rain above us and fiery lava below.

We seek clarity through the fog- Not knowing for sure whom it is that wishes us harm, or whom it is that reaches out in kindness.

I am here to help- But if my charity is mistaken for mistaken for weakness- Then let the panes of glass fly off their temporary structures, allow the rooftops to pop open unannounced, and force the foundation to be consumed, from underneath, by the Blacksmith that always has his oven churning.

There are no secrets we can hide from the Pharaoh's Eye that is operated by the great slave army of passed over kings.

-Two soldiers in combat lock their weapons down at the sight of schoolchildren marching toward them. And, before they can differentiate the illusion from the true reality, they are torn apart by the horde of snakes and buzzards that have surrounded them.

5-

If it wasn't for all the unnecessary wars- Blame on innocents, apathy of the guilty denying suspicion, false empathy for the dagger in the back and the nameless family- Our premeditated revenge tactics would not exist.

-In denying our peaceful nature during times of crisis, we heighten tension in our attempt to cleanse the gene pool.

-It is known that ancient cultures did not believe the lower chasts worthy of any sacrifice, or shared pleasure.

-We have been born in the muck and it is expected for all of us to toss off the yolk by our own accord.

-Being born equal to all other men has an underlying disadvantage for those who were kicked in the head before they were born.

-My favorite war story is about the populace of a small town during the Civil War, bringing out their picnic baskets to watch the Northern and Southern armies converge on a battlefield. They must have been expecting a type of scrum involving misfired canons and broken sticks.

What they got, though, was the most obscene, nightmarish spectacle any of them had ever witnessed. They ran, vomiting and crying out in anguish, into the woods like fawn and pheasant- Frightened to show their faces to either army until the war was over.

-The old trick of survival is to take captives to barter with for opposing factions approval.

If no one ever comes to rescue the captives, or take them prisoner, they must be poisoned, incinerated- The ashes scattered into a turbulent wind so no evidence of them existing can ever be found.

-Traces of carbon from a campfire wound around me the other night- I wiped the ashen dust into my face, let my clothes become inebriated with the scent of camp.

-The animals know my scent- And, the difference between peaceful sage, or pine- And, the rough edge of day old smoke and ember.

-It is useless, at times, to attempt to clean ourselves of the burs and thorns that have pockmarked our skin since birth. The wounds heal eventually- The scabs can be scraped, leaving only traces of scarring, the open sores cauterized, and bandaged.

-But, some of us may leave the dried blood flaking on our skin for a few days-To remind those that want to harm us further, that their job is not done yet and we are still not running away.

3-

-I have seen, in the street, a man recently returned from war, shouting down an older veteran, in an attempt to establish equal respect for his plight.

-I have overheard the criticisms of the older feminists, in their confusion of the way younger women mismanage their lives and give in to chauvinist bias.

-I have witnessed liberals and conservatives alike, discriminate against anyone viewed as weaker, uglier, more distant, more arbitrary.

-Anger and remorse can be considered the same emotion when the frustrations of people's lives become overbearing and beyond ordinary realms of control.

-These are examples of tough times forced upon people who are not prepared for them.

-They arrive in church, and, instead of a prayer for salvation, they invent little curses in their minds to throw out at their imaginary enemies.

-They conjure up false complaints about each other- The service is poor, the staff is lazy, the training is not what it used to be.

-They come with terrific excuses for their own lack of performance- I'm deathly ill, I wasn't trained properly, the sky might fall.

-I have come to the conclusion that until stability and security can once again be proven to exist, that I will enjoy life when I can- Regardless of the capital needed to really have fun.

- It is in the quest for great fortune when the toughest decisions are made- In this time of economic struggle, if I catch you attempting to sell my love away, it should be known that expiration date has expired and the Blacksmiths' anvil also has your initials pounded permanently onto it's strike.

4-

-We have discovered recently that there is no invasion of privacy, if privacy does not exist.

-People live outside of themselves on their social networking realities. So much so, that if a person desperately wants something kept secret, her/his peers will peck away at it- Like a buzzard does to a corpses' internal organs.

-The idea of killing another person is completely undesirable to anyone with a healthy conscience. But, even those with conscience can be tempted into the "killing from afar" strategy.

-This is the wish that someone you know, however far away they are from you, comes to some inescapable harm. The Wiccan theory comes into play here that bad coincidence, and negative synchronicity are purposely caused by too many people thinking negative things about a person, all at the same time.

-The Buddhist ideology of not fearing "invisible enemies," that may, or may not exist, contrasts the Pagan philosophy of negative energy sources.

-But, as everyone soon may learn, everything evil can be conjured by a pod plane or, maybe, just a sudden detonation in the middle of the ocean, on a specific, highly fragile fault line.

-Anyone, anywhere in the world, can create chaos, if they have the proper codes and know-how to access a powerful governments' technology.

-This is when the Holders of Real Magik are forced to put their trump cards on the table. If hallucinations can be triggered from a far away place, out of the sky, into the ground we walk upon, then it is the Blacksmith who gives the order for spirits to rise out of their imprisonment- In an unforeseen, riotous tumult of woman and man versus a sadistic, hallucinogenic, mechanical beast.

5- We still do not understand how our disposable lives are taken for granted by those who depend on us to serve them their wine, and dig their diamonds out of the priceless dirt they stole long ago with permission only from the dirt itself.

The trees are angry- They are about to tear out their own roots in hopes of allowing the soil to slip back into the sea.

The wind is angry, also. It billows when it is asked not to, and stagnates, like a thick algae, when the ocean pleads with it to flow.

The Sun, and the hidden universe behind it, still laugh at the follies of Earth- Blacksmith still pounding out armor and weaponry- Instead of tools or decorations. Mother Ocean still weeping- Pleading eternally with thinning crust of land, to please not purposely erode without cause, or warning.

Our economies are living experiments, our technologies are living experiments, our hearts, and minds, and even our souls are virtual experiments-

And, we would like to know who it is that dares take our ongoing Democratic experiment into their hands like it is a ball of putty, and attempts to mold it, without the approval of the people, into some mangled form that the world never expected it to become.

-We know who They are- But, we are still confused as to why They hide, while we are exposed, and why they seem protected, even from the Magik sent by a false star, while we wander barefoot on sharpened rocks- As if, They are gods, and we are still nomadic tribesmen- Frightened and intimidated by the Phantoms and Monsters that roam the night.

-They cannot continually blame outside influence for our oppressed freedoms and undue intimidation.

Do not tell us there is no money when there are half-smoked cigars littering the gutters.

Do not tell us technology is falling into evil hands when our Constitution and Bill of Rights were ignored by the people claiming to take responsibility for our country's protection.

-Roaches and mice have always lived under the concrete- But, somehow, barking Hyenas slipped through the cemetery gate, and it was you, Gatekeeper, that handed them the picks and shovels they needed to desecrate pre-mature graves.

6-

This is the beginning of the age of prayers for miracles.

However, as we have seen time and time again throughout history, when true miracles happen in a way that people can actually witness them, they are less than pleasant- And, normally involve an amount of pain not requested by the average person, who is simply hoping for a way out of uncomfortable circumstance.

When I pray, I use a form of meditation developed by Monks primarily in Korea.

The method seems simple- But, is considered more difficult by most practitioners of meditation.

Instead of repeating a phrase over and over, either out loud, or in your' mind, the Korean method attempts to remove all dialogue, either from within the mind, or from without.

It is extremely difficult to achieve this womb-like, fetal state of mind.

But, we have become aware of the Ki, without requesting it.

And, it is what allows shallow waters to remain safe- And, it is what distracts the Blacksmith from his hammering for a brief moment- As he becomes aware of another aura, possibly a sound, possibly a tap on his shoulder, that is subtle in it's approach, but somehow far more clear and concise than even the hissing of heated metal into the trough.

-And, it is what turns a Serpentine Temptresses' head from her real lover- And, plagues her on those lonely nights, when she awakes in heat, so close to orgasm without even a touch from any hand- Longing with desire for another person that exists- If only he or she was within reach.

Emotives rest- Pallbearers' know our names

The time of paranoia has passed

Because we have realized

The red bug truly is in our mind.

Hints of premonition

Become Eclipsed

By the blue light in the sky.

We used to believe

How our feet tread on the floor

Predicted the future of passing seasons.

But, if in our waking,

After peaceful dreams,

A violent, or disturbing notion,

Intercedes those pre-dawn emotions;

We must admit the derision is forced upon us

By outside forces.

People live their lives mostly,

Without distraction of

The cracks in pavement,

Or, slope of street.

But if warning comes with first light,

So does the inclination to

Rush out of bed into the churning,

Compulsive reaches of reality

That intersect with calming visions.

A tree we climb, blown about

By vicious winds, will give us

Enough trimmed and stout branches

To reach the top, if the tree-trimmer

Grants us those conclusive rungs.

We shape our own destiny only

If the world let's us slip by.

Unnoticed, unannounced;

Weary, yet able to continue.

If it is such, we are the eye of the hurricane;

Then let it be known, though it is calm,

We dare not step outward from that tentative,

Protective circle.

For in the lashes, so unforgiving,

We can be removed in a blink,

And rubbed away by a hand unseen,

And uncommitted to our reason for lasting.

Humanity only ignores the downtrodden

If they are completely erased

By the victors, the bullies, the eradicators

Of this history we became a part of

At birth, and could only escape from

If we never tried to be remembered.

High winds all day. High winds all night.

I thought my heart was breaking

But it was you, dreaming of someone else,

And waking next to me.

Firefly In Our Nest?

Rain is coming

The Eaves are bent

Chicks are hungry

For the tasks we lent

Rain is coming

That the horizon sent

Crows are squawking-

Firefly in our nest

Storm of air and sea

Not spentEarth is dry and hungry

From the SwallowsWe held back

Gathered acorns stolen

From our net

Another hundred years

Is timeWe hope to dry the stones

That weptTell the childrenTo

forgetOf our ignorance

And what it meant

We let the water into stream

Too far along the inlet-Father's angry-

Mother's wearyWe played in Springtime-

Rusted Plow

We lazed in Summer-

Slaughtered CowForgot our chores

And worldly dangers-

Winter FrostAmongst the Most-

Firefly in our Nest

When Transparent Moments Become A Permanent Absence

1.

I was at the poker table

Raising on a bluff

And watching as my opponent

Who held a high pair, at best,

Frowns, and folds his cards-

Not wanting to chase the river.

"Sucker!" I yelled, in excitement,

Reaching for the chips from

The biggest pot of the night.

"I'm still in," You had said,

Looking embarrassed for me,

But also, smirking a little

-You had called my first two raises

Without me even knowing

You were still in the hand.

You had three of a kind,

Which was enough, especially,

After my outburst, to call

My last raise, and win the pot.

2-

The ability to become transparent,

Like during that poker game,

I witnessed you achieve more than once.

You were good at it.

There is a way in people sometimes

That allows a marble texture

To indistinguish them

From the often trite emotional displays

That other humans concede to.

I believed it made you wise-

Hard, without being cold.

Distant, without being completely removed.

Almost impenatrable- A fog

Someone could slip through

Only if they were crafty enough

And had faith in instincts

Over reason.

3-

I learned a long time ago

What it is to be ostracized

By a group of people I considered

Good friends.

I also, one too many times,

(And once, really, is too many)

Have comforted women I loved

After some form of abuse in their past.

Is this how it was with you?

I know, because I witnessed

Your slow pull away from

A group of people you trusted,

That you most likely felt alone.

But were you abused, beaten

As an adult? This is

The rumor we all hear now;

When it is too late

To comfort, or confront you

About it.

Did the transparency that gave you

An edge over other people

More outwardly emotional,

And reckless drive your

Self-defenses so far

From the surface, you could not

Cry out for help even in your

Most destitute, desperate time?

Some would say it does not matter

What the reason for curse without cure.

But I would like to know.

Because these treasons of humanity

Have been recurring since forever

Anyone can remember, and if I learn

It is happening again to someone I know,

I would like the opportunity to stop it.

4-

Blood is frightening

To those who find it unexpectantly.

Overdoses rarely succeed

The way they are meant to.

The idea, also, of surviving

But being debilitated

Is scarier than death.

The way that is effective,

But also extremely frightening,

Is the knotted rope,

And the chair that falls

So permanently, almost by accident,

Just that few inches out of reach.

It is similar to the shotgun-

I've always wondered if people

Who kill themselves in these type of

Gory ways, practice time and time again

Swallowing the barrell, wearing the noose

-Practicing, or experimenting at what

Suicide might be like, and possibly

Slipping off the chair, or nudging the trigger

Accidentally one day- Leaving behind

Evidence of purposeful intent.

-But still, something pushes those people

To practice that morbitity in the first place.

-Something pushed you into

The noose that fateful day.

And since, we have so few clues

About the events of your life

In recent years, we can only suppose

You really wanted to die when you did,

And you didn't just trip or slip

Accidentally, on one of those days

After you had given up asking for help.

5-

Every so often,

I read articles about

Studies the Pentagon does

Comparing the number of troop suicides

In times of war to times of peace.

Of course, during an engagement

The number of suicides is far higher.

But in times of war, it is not

Just military troops in combat

That can feel the stress level

Of a nation thrown into deadly action.

Your grandparents would have

Understood that.

The suicide rate in internment camps,

Here, in the United States, during

World War II, were grossly exxagerated

In comparison to the general populace.

I have been waiting for a study

To reveal that suicides increase

Within the civilian population

During wartime, as well.

Was your death, in part,

Caused by the stress our society feels

When our country is at war,

And our economy is failing?

Being more specific; did that

Deadly Asian gene that forces

Silence and shame onto Japanese children

Skip a couple of generations,

And implant itself in your D.N.A.?

We are all grasping at straws, Dina.

Pointing our fingers at everything

To try to figure out what, how,

Or why that terrible thing happened to you.

I guess, we should have looked around,

Or asked, years ago.

But you never seemed like one.......

You know?

6-

Emptiness is a ghost that haunts us

When someone we love is gone forever.

We carry these souls

On our backs througout the rest

Of our lifetimes.

When you know someone,very well,

Over a long period time,

Their death does not seem an ending at all

-It only enhances our knowing of that person.

-As if, in passing,

We become more familiar with the person.

-We have a sudden implosion of memories

Only about the specific person who has died.

-And we sense the person is near

In recollection of the sounds of their voice,

The expressions they made with their face,

How they responded to our personalities.

-That is the saddest aspect of a friend's death.

-We are reaching out to you

Even though we know you are not there.

You're only honest in your sleep

Candle wax has gathered

Like honey solidified

On the nightstand table

-The wick encompassed,

And barely visible underneath

A glossy, melted orb.

The light from this flame

Used to highlight your face,

Your hair, your lips

As you slept. And I would watch

As those lips moved through

Your dreams spelling out

The images hidden while awake.

Now, this candle no longer burns.

Even in sleep, you are invisible.

-The distrust you display to the world

In your waking life, you take

With you now even in darkness.

I used to listen to you

Purr and murmur little wisdom's

-Little remnants of truth-

That in daylight hours

You kept shuttered behind

That mannequin-esque

Display of perfection

That held judgement at bay.

We could replace the candle,

Or turn on a nightlight

To bring back the whispers

You used to share.

But I would prefer

To bring out those annunciations

Without the conflicting remorse

Of whatever it is you continue to hide.

-The light from a candle

Within the dusk of your sleep

Is dishonest in of itself.

No one should need artificial light

To reveal her/his true nature.

I cannot tell if you enjoy

Believing you are invisible,

Or if the secrets you keep

-Almost, but not quite

Escaping your lips-

Allow you to feel more human somehow-

As if, without a secret to share;

Somewhere, with someone

In the future- your present life

Could not exist to you now

Unless rehashed as a bold new event.

You do enjoy the shock factor

-That kind of revealing about yourself,

Or others, can bring to an ordinary conversation.

Unless, I am very fortunate,

I do not believe you will ever tell me.

Normally though, over the passage of time,

These kinds of things do come out.

-If I am lucky enough,

I have decades to wait

Before that stale revealing

Comes into my focus.

These things are rarely as shocking

As people would like them to be.

I've heard of almost every kind of

Travesty, betrayal, and sad twist of fate

That has ever existed.

But if yours is that good;

I dare you to hit me with it.

If your secret blade of truth

Can possibly penetrate this thick skull,

I might welcome the intrusion.

Fingerprints of light

Beneath an eyelid,

I have heard,

Are partly from inner-mind

-Digested images that mingle constantly

With the intrusions that press themselves

So consistently onto the mind's film

Of what we half-remember

In the trillion of moments

Shooting by us everyday.

I would like to be aware of more of them;

Forever, as long as I live.

I will not forget how you hid from me.

-I would prefer to remember

How it was you once trusted me

With your true nature.

-Until you reveal it again,

You can only be a fluttering of scattered,

Distorted light- Making me believe

We wasted these years together

And whenever it is I stop coming by

Will be the final imprint we have of each other-

One of us turning away; the other,

Lowering her hair to hide her face,

And crossing her arms defensively,

So even her hands cannot give herself away.

Houseless Part 3

Who let it end up on the ground

How am I gonna know I'm letting you down

Who let it end up on the ground

How did he end up on the ground

Face down on the ground

Glass Ceiling, Emily Haines from Metric

In my case, I went through a very rough breakup with a long-term girlfriend, had a falling out with my family and some close friends, found myself repeatedly laid off, or terminated from employment, and, finally, was evicted from a room I was renting from a friend that had his own battle with alcoholism and loneliness, but had enough money somehow to cover the rent on a three bedroom condo by himself.

I found out months after this man evicted me, that he had been emailing, calling, and sending text messages to my friends and family, and even my ex-girlfriend, belittling me, and making my struggle to sustain these long-standing, healthy relationships much more difficult than it should have been. I am still confused in my mind, even now, whether to despise him for this, or just pity him for the very small, petty individual he turned out to be.

I had no idea this ex-roommate of mine was gossipping behind my back, and therefore had no way to defend myself from the kind of judgement of peers he was helping to shape about me. I also, (this may be in large part to a rigid stubbornness I had developed in my early twenties) was extremely fed up with people denying that my personal economic status was, at least a little bit, due in part to outside factors. When I complained about lack of employment, and the fact of how difficult it was for me to sustain a job, I had numerous people tell me to my face that blaming the economy for my unemployment was a kind of cop-out excuse.

It disgusted me earlier this year to hear outgoing Vice-President Dick Cheney say that, "No one could have predicted how bad the economic crisis was going to be."

A statement like that from a powerful political entity that he was, is just a slap in the face to people like me, and, much more notably, numerous economists and successful business people outside of the government elite, that had been predicting worldwide economic turmoil if the United States kept pouring money into the Iraq war machine, continued to borrow money from countries like China or Saudi Arabia in amounts that seemed impossible to ever pay back, and kept devaluing the U.S. dollar by outsourcing, and pushing manufacturing jobs overseas.

These kinds of naysayer predictions had been going on the entire 2nd term of the Bush Administration, but were repeated more direly late in 2006 and early to mid-2007. As it turned out, the same dumbshit people that were trying to save us from Global Warming were also meddling with people's heads by warning us about a global economic meltdown. Assholes!

Part of my stubbornness concerning my peers ignorance of my financial status was not to immediately tell anyone that I was living in my car. Immediately, after being evicted from my roommates condo, I went to a neighborhood I felt familiar and safe in, bought a few items of food, water, and personal hygiene products at a pharmacy, and, as odd as this may seem to other people, scraped off my upper layer of clothing and took a bird's bath.

I suppose, what I was doing was publicly declaring I was homeless by washing my hair, face, and upper torso in a parking lot in the middle of the day. I was fully aware that anyone observing me doing this probably did not give a rat's ass why I was there, or why it was I broke out my shampoo and soap so quickly after purchasing them.

It was not long after this, I began collecting CRV, and scouting areas safe to sleep in, and whatnot. It was very interesting to me, and I have been trying to stress this to people when they are willing to listen to long enough, that I did not contract any illness, be it the flu, or any other sickness, while I was out digging in trash for CRV, or sleeping on the ground on city streets, or in city parks.

This fact, more than any other, about my homeless experience still constantly amazes me. And, even more interesting to me, is that I did not contract any cold or flu until this year, while working for a telemarketing company where us employees shared telephones and computer keyboards.

Next time you are at work, or at the library, or any other place there is a personal computer keyboard sitting on a desk that has been in use for more than a few months, look down between the buttons of the keypad and please observe the amount of lint, gunk, and visible bacteria your little typist fingers call home before and after lunchtime.

Then, walk out front of whatever building you are in and attempt to find that much bacteria laden crap on even an entire block of pavement, or asphalt. Even most sewer gutters have less communicable spreading substance in them than the common household, or office space keypad.

You can't just hose off, or sink an electronic device into soapy, hot water. Think of that next time you see someone you believe is extremely dirty sleeping on the street.

All a brother has to do is wash his hands before eating, and pray his food is cooked properly, and most likely he will consume on a daily basis far less germs than the everyday office employee.

Earthquake Safety Tips From Our Friends At The Onion

Because there was a side-splitting, hillarious earthquake last night in SoCal, I have decided to post The Onion's Earthquake Safety Tips. I know my tales of houselessness are boring people, and my poems are morbid, if not downright creepy. To help prove I am normally always happy, here's some fun safety tips about the most mysterious natural disaster the Earth can create!

Earthquake Safety Tips

Earthquakes can strike without warning, and being prepared for such a disaster can mean the difference between life and death. Here are some tips to help you and your loved ones make it through a quake:

Enlarge Image

Those living in areas not prone to earthquakes can respond quickly to the plight of disaster victims in quake zones by complacently smirking and saying, "I told you so."

To minimize loss and damage in a quake, try not to own things.

Experiencing an earthquake is terrifying, but a majority of people caught in one do survive. During the tremors, try to resist the temptation to have sex with pets or houseplants.

Practice your burrowing-out-from-under-40-tons-of-rubble skills ahead of time.

Look out your window often. If you see a large, zig-zag-shaped crevasse moving rapidly from the horizon toward your home, step either to the right or the left.

Do you have a treasured childhood toy? Perhaps a stuffed animal, such as a teddy bear? Well, let's see Mr. Bear help you now.

For those who fear earthquakes, it may comfort you to know that a majority of the damage during the 1906 San Francisco earthquake did not come from the tremors themselves. Instead, it was from the raging, out-of-control fires that consumed most of the city.

A doorway is the safest place to be during a quake. Eat, sleep and work in doorways.

Be sure to mail your house-insurance payments a full five business days before a major earthquake strikes.

In the event of a quake, get under something heavy, such as a desk, a table or your uncle.

If you are caught in a major earthquake in Southern California and are part of the entertainment industry, take a moment or two to reflect on how grossly you've wasted your life.

Houseless Part 2

When I first began living in my car on a full time basis, I would curl up underneath a blanket in the driver’s seat, with a tire iron in one hand, and a flashlight in the other. I was prepared at any moment to defend myself from certain danger; mugging, murder, or worse.
after only a few nights, I realized it was ridiculous to pretend I was any safer with these two objects clenched in my hands. For one thing, I was losing sleep. Protective awareness was only allowing me to sleep an hour at a time.
The second thing I realized about sleeping with a weapon in my hand, was that it would be far too easy for a police officer to mistake the tire iron for a gun, possibly shoot me in the head, and ask questions later.
One night in Balboa Park, about two-thirty in the morning, a very nice security guard came up to my car, and tapped on the window to remind me that 2 A.M. was the cut-off time for cars to be parked in the lot my car was in, and wanted to warn me that if the S.D.P.D. rolled in, I would certainly be ticketed for parking illegally, if not cited for illegal camping, which was, and still is, I believe illegal almost everywhere in San Diego city and county.
The man was honestly being nice and doing me a favor by warning me about my parking situation. Everyone knows though, what it is like to be woken up unannounced by a stranger. I came very close to raising the tire iron up in a defensive position when I awoke to a man I had never seen before standing at my car window staring in at me.
Because things like this happened to me numerous times involving police, not just armed security guards, I stopped holding anything in my hands while sleeping my car, and also, attempted at all times to have my hands somehow exposed while asleep, so passerby’s could see I was not molesting myself while in my vehicle, or hiding anything in my hands underneath the blanket, or sleeping bag that covered the rest of my body.
Another thing I found ridiculous about the act of arming myself while I slept, was that in a very realistic way, anyone could approach my car, and do numerous misdeeds, if they chose to, way before I had any kind of chance to hit them with the tire iron, or even step outside of the car.
I learned, eventually, that it was almost safer to sleep outside, with two or three walls at my back, or surrounded by bushes, or trees than it was to lay in the driver seat of my car where I could not see, even if I was wide awake, anyone approaching me from about the entire peripheral of my vision.
It does not take a fucking trained Army Commando to figure these things out. A person realizes, over time, that it is incredibly difficult to live outdoors and appear harmless to the breadth of humanity that is always wandering by, but also to have enough awareness of personal safety to sleep extremely well.
After months and months of sleeping either in my car, or out on the ground somewhere, I was only bothered by one person beside the police. I believe it was a solicitation for sex; a man pulled up next to my car twice, in a five minute period, to ask me how I was doing. I considered it very threatening, since I had purposely parked far from a residential neighborhood, in hopes of being able to sleep and not come in contact with people.
The second time he stopped next to me, I said something like, “What the fuck do you want?”
I don’t remember the exact wording of the phrase I used, but it did cause the man to drive off and not come back. I slept okay that night, but only after staying up for a couple of hours to make sure the man did not drive by again.
That was a common misconception I found amongst most people who observed me, or anyone else, sleeping in a car, or on the street. People believed all homeless individuals to be drug addicts, rapists, child molesters, prostitutes, or some other kind of degenerate criminal. Certainly, that element is always present in all communities, homeless or not, but the idea that a person like myself had no stable source of income, and had no magic safety chord to pull in order to immediately remove himself from this desperate situation eluded many people.
Once again, feeling threatened like I had when that man stopped his car next to mine, only happened once. I felt most safe while parked in a residential neighborhood. I always tried to park my car next to someone’s side, or back fence, as opposed to in front of the walkway to their front door, or right next to their driveway.
Many times, because I would arrive at my car to sleep late at night, and usually be up very early, I think most people in these neighborhoods I was in didn’t even see me. I found several locations in San Diego that were close enough to houses and apartments that the place was considered residential, yet, where my car was actually parked was far enough away from people’s homes that there should have been no logical reason for anyone to overtly observe me, much less call the police on me.
The criminalization of homelessness, whether it was in the form of city ordinances banning people from sleeping in public, or other legalities; like the aforementioned time limits on how long a vehicle can be parked in a certain area, waned a little near the end of 2008. I think police, certainly city officials, and many of the public at large, came to a realization that the growing homeless population around them was in direct relation to their own financial circumstances, as well. Unemployment was at an all time high, and home foreclosures, also, skyrocketed around the same time.
This kind of economic climate wasn’t good for anyone, especially the poorest of the poor, but at least, hopefully, more people became aware that unfortunate economic events were often times out of the individual’s control, and that balancing act of stability could be lost to people who previously believed themselves capable of weathering any monetary downturn.
My biggest problem and concern still, to this day, is finding stable employment. One thing a tremendous recession like this does, is give companies great leeway in which employees to keep around, and which to get rid of. In today’s economic instability, even companies that are not losing money, or on the verge of bankruptcy, can still get away with laying people off, or firing them indiscriminately. And, people in charge of terminating members of a company’s workforce, whom may have friends or family members in dire circumstances, feel little or no sympathy for other people they hardly know outside of the work environment.
These kinds of cutthroat situations; whether at a large corporation size company, down to the smallest independently owned business, should constantly remind everyone of the cruel and selfish nature of humanity; especially, when people feel most vulnerable, and fear for the basic necessities of what they believe they need in order to survive.
When I have a conversation with someone, anyone, on topics such as war, genocide, mass rape, torture….and the person I am speaking with is exclaiming that the perpetrators of these crimes are animals, lacking in a basic human compassion, or worse, just purely evil, I cannot help but agree, but it makes me wonder also, whom in this world is purely good, or generous, or kind?
There are very few real charitable souls in this world. I don’t think I can even call myself one, either. If you fall down, I will try to pick you up, but if you throw a rock at my head, I most likely will throw one back. I’m not necessarily vengeful, but I don’t want to be stoned to death, either.

Houseless Part 1

CRV recycling is, by far, the most realistic, legal way for extremely impoverished people to earn a few dollars a day. In high school, I would clean up after small parties I had when my parents were out of town and take the empty beer cans, and bottles to the Miramar Landfill recycling center, so as to permanently remove them from the premises. I didn’t get the idea of doing this out in public, in city parks, and other areas until after I did a beach and bay cleanup after July 4th of 2008.
The beach cleanup occurred on July 5th, of course. While I was walking around picking up and disposing of random litter on the ground the July 4th party goers had so conveniently left about for me, I decided, in a sudden epiphany, that if I was willing to scavenge around finding scraps of discarded food wrappers, or whatever other kind of garbage I was eagerly searching for without getting paid for it, in a sincerely honest attempt to help my home city appear clean and tidy, why not, since I could not afford in any way to celebrate the 4th in the same manner with which the partygoers I was cleaning up after had, begin making recycling a source of income, instead of an arbitrary hobby?
Basically, if you could get paid to scoop shit when you had been scooping it year after year with no monetary return, why the fuck not?
After that epiphany, throughout the rest of 2008, and the beginning of this year, I did begin my recycling expeditions while in between paychecks of the meager-paying part time jobs I had been working.
This daily and nightly activity became especially important for me when my unemployment insurance expired, and my attempt at getting an emergency extension was denied. Suddenly, without any source of income at all, I found myself fully dependant on CRV collecting for everyday monetary needs.
There were both good and bad experiences I had during this time period. Sometimes, late at night, or very early in the morning, I would feel extremely peaceful, almost in a Zen-like trance with my surroundings, as I walked about, or tried to sleep in a place where police or people in a neighborhood wouldn’t complain about my presence. (Because gas was so expensive, especially late in the summer, as the Presidential elect ion was heating up, I would often leave my car in one neighborhood, and walk, often times for hours, or, literally, all night, collecting CRV, and only returning to my car when I wanted a change of clothes.)
People might suggest living like this is extremely dangerous. I think though, with my intimate knowledge of the city, having lived here my entire life, I already had a pretty good feel about which neighborhoods were dangerous, or which were less dangerous to be in late at night.
It helps also, as far as avoiding the criminal element, to not be involved with any illegal activity, and to also, maybe more importantly, to establish somehow that you are not a police informant.
In a more obvious way, I most likely appeared so dirty, desperate, and impoverished that the criminal element, whomever they were, considered me as useful to them as the trash I was picking through.
I had learned early on in this experience that when people collecting recyclables became territorial, it was best to just move on to another area. This did not happen very often because, for the most part, there was always enough recyclable material in any given area to sustain three or four, or possibly even more collectors at any given time. However, during certain times of the month, as people’s money ran out from unemployment, or disability, and they waited for the next check to come in, having exclusive rights to recycle in a certain area where it was guaranteed a person could make a certain amount of money became very important for a lot of people living on the street. If people who depended on three to ten dollars of livelihood in a certain time period suddenly had that source of income stolen from them, things could get ugly.
I was never myself confronted by anyone for this reason. I did not have to be told twice to leave another can collector’s territory. Especially, considering many of the people living like this could be hard-core alcoholics, or junkies, and not normally prone to violent tendencies unless coming down, unwillingly drying out, or really, really hungry.
One of the more notable experiences I had while doing this, that was ultimately bizarre in its’ coincidental nature, was when I found money in one of the trash cans I was pulling CRV out of.
It wasn’t a lot of money; maybe three or four dollars of pennies and nickels, all at the bottom of a trash bag in one of the cans somewhere downtown around the Gaslamp. I carefully separated all the coins from the trash on the ground, and then put all the trash back into the bag.
(One of my ideals while living on the street was not to ever litter anywhere, especially in an area where my car was parked, or I was trying to sleep. That seemed an easy way to draw negative attention to myself. I would even pick up random litter if it was laying near my car, so people wouldn’t suspect I was the person dirtying up their neighborhood. I attempted to follow the old camping rule of leaving the campsite cleaner than I had found it. Basically, I kept my own junk in my own trunk.)
I took the pennies and nickels I had found inside the trash can straight to a Coin Master machine inside of the Ralph’s grocery store downtown, then walked all the way up to the nearest recycling yard, slept for an hour or two until they opened, and then cashed the collection of CRV I had collected the night before.
With the change I had converted to whole dollars at Ralph’s and the money from the CRV, I came out a little over seven dollars, total. I immediately hopped a bus (before MTS ridiculously hiked the bus fares, I normally had a monthly bus pass every month) into Golden Hill to eat at one of my favorite restaurants. The good fortune of finding real money in a trash can, inspired me to eat at a real restaurant, instead of at Joe’s Kitchen.
My bill after eating somehow came out to about the exact amount of money I had in my pocket, including a fair tip. So, after walking all night collecting CRV, and even magically finding free money at the bottom of a trash receptacle, I spent all of it in less than an hour on one meal.
But, that was the kind of ironic, and twisted turns of fortune I had become used to in my day to day existence when I had no stable source of income, and no real way to go about planning anything more than twenty-four to forty-eight hours ahead of time.

Sleepless San Diego, May 2nd, Huge Success!

Sleepless San Diego, a fundraiser event for the San Diego Rescue Mission, is in it's 3rd year, held at Liberty Station, raised over $350,000.



I have heard of Sleepless San Diego in the past, but volunteering to raise money, and take part in the event had never occurred to me until this year.



For people who have never heard of Sleepless, it is a fundraising event similar to a marathon fundraiser, in which participants take donations from friends and family, or other sponsors, except, instead of running a race, the participants sleep outdoors for one night, either on a cot, or, like I did, on the ground. It is held in a safe, contained environment, where they can sleep underneath the open sky while raising money for an extremely worthwhile charity.



I had only six days to raise the minimum contribution amount of fifty-five dollars in order to participate as a Sleeper. With Spring in full bloom, San Diego is, on a week by week basis, a city busy with events (charitable, or otherwise). I learned Sleepless was being held on May 2nd only the week before.



A few generous friends of mine donated just enough money for me to squeeze in at the minimum donation amount. I truly wish I had two or three more weeks of fundraising time to triple that amount of money, or more. My personal experiences with sleeping on the street, whether in my car, or without have fostered in me a deep empathy for homeless youth, homeless families, and the seriously drug addicted.



The San Diego Rescue Mission, as I understand it, is specifically catered to those three groups of people stricken with poverty.



The real challenge for me while living in my car, and collecting recycles out of city parks for a few dollars a day of spending money, was how to get to job interviews on time, be clean, (hygiene is a major concern for all people living on the streets, even for those not trying to openly impress anyone) and dressed appropriately for the interview.



I've used charities for my own needs very sparingly. Beside waiting in line at St. Vincent de Paul for their daily meal, and once, to my own detriment, taking a bag of food from Catholic Charities, I try not to use non-profit, non-government entities for any kind of assistance.



(When I explained to the staff of Catholic Charities that I was living in my car, and, therefore, had no refrigeration to store perishable food items, or stove to cook food on, they loaded me up with so many cans of pre-cooked, non-perishable food products, I injured both my arms carrying it, and was sore all over for weeks afterward. My car was parked near the Zoo; out of gas, or broken down, or whatever. This is just one of many, many stupid things I did the first six months or so of finding out exactly how difficult it is for the poorest members of our society to get help in this fine city.)



I used only these two non-profits the entire time I was house-less last year, for two specific reasons; the first is, that while not raised Catholic, it is the only type of church service I have attended in my life because close friends, both in childhood, and in adulthood are Catholic. This fact, in of itself, excused me from feeling any remorse in taking free food from a Catholic sponsored organization, because I had dined at so many Catholic weddings, and other events in years past that it seemed quite natural to sign up to accept personal donations from them.



The second reason, however selfish this may seem, is because the fare at St. Vincent de Paul, on the majority of days I ate there, was really good. Especially, compared to eating a can of cold beans or canned vegetables for breakfast.



I only took one issue with the amenities provided to us fundraisers at Sleepless; the website stated that bottled water would be provided to people that were unable to bring their own, which it was not. Starbucks did provide free coffee, however. So, it was hard to complain about anything when I learned about that.



The most interesting idea the organizers of Sleepless came up with was the Build A Shelter tent that supplied cardboard and plastic bags for people to construct sleeping shelters out of. I thought this was a great activity, especially for children or teens to partake in. I believe it encouraged a certain understanding of why it is people sleeping on the street are encased in cardboard, or fully wrapped in plastic. Though it never rained, and it was a little warmer than I expected it to be, if it had even sprinkled, the cardboard huts that people built over themselves would have been very useful. There was a consistent patience, and virtue for humanity perpetuated by the organizers for the fundraisers to experience; the Build A Shelter activity I considered especially clever because a physical activity for people to participate in that directly related to the cause people had come out to support.



Here is the rescue mission's website- http://www.sdrescue.org/ I think they are taking donations for next year's Sleepless event, and I am sure they are taking general contributions year round.

Open Letter to Editor of San Diego City Beat

Dearest City Beat, Local Police, Firefighters, etc,



A letter to the Editor two weeks ago compared homeless person's to "wild dogs," that deserve very little respect from the rest of humanity.



I would like to remind whomever wrote this letter that it is that exact attitude that inspires violence against homeless people, like, case in point, the burning to death of a man in Los Angeles recently, by three teenage boys.



We all understand there is no simple solution to homelessness, nor is there simple solutions to how firefighters, or police, handle people in the street, homeless or not, who are behaving irrationally, or even violently.



However, what is inexcusable, is when people are ticketed for passing out free food to hungry people, or beaten down on a sidewalk for trying to give thirsty people water. Also, the term "liberal" we all threw out a long time ago. And, even though I have had my experiences living in my car, or actually on the street, I prefer the term "house-less," for the simple reason that San Diego is my home, and, to emphasize the true point of this letter, I AM very human.



Thank you,



Ben McFadden



[Emailed to Editor of City Beat on today's date.]

Drummer Boy Big Appetite

The Kid in his highchair; a thick, metal spoon in his right hand, and a baby rattle in his left, pounding on the wooden food tray that kept him imprisoned in the chair.



Grandma sat next to him at the table, occasionally bending to pick up either the spoon or the rattle if he dropped one of them, laughing out loud at how demanding the Kid could be if the toy or utensil were not always in his hands, and he was unable to bang down repeatedly on the wooden tray.



"He's just like a little animal," Grandma said, though not in a way that was at all negative or derogatory. He did kind of look like one of the Muppet characters. His hair was thin, just growing in long enough to begin covering his forehead, and was just beginning to show it's natural brown color, but still dark, almost black, the same color it was when he had been born. He still had the quintessential button-baby nose, though his eyes, cheekbones, and especially the line of his jaw were developing the profile of a real unique face; the kind of features all babies get eventually before becoming toddlers.



"He looks like his father," Mother answered, from the kitchen, where she was cleaning the dishes from breakfast with Grandma.



"I don't know, I can't tell yet," Grandma said, peering at the boy like he was unknown species, and trying to decipher from subtle facial characteristics the designation of his origin.



"Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!! Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!! Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!! Yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!<br>


The Kid yelled, in time with his spoon and rattle beat on the wooden tray. Loud, incomprehensible noises were the only language he could speak.



"God, is he hungry again?" Mother asked, from the kitchen.



She had finished cleaning the dishes and was now wiping down the counters with a wet rag. In less than a minute, she had a ham sandwich slapped together on the tray in front of the Kid.



"Seems like he's always hungry," Grandma said, in awe of how the Kid took to the sandwich, and seemed to devour it almost without chewing it.



While the kid scarfed his sandwich like it was made of liquid, instead of bread and ham, and Mother finished up in the kitchen, Grandma stepped outside to smoke a cigarette, carrying her cup of coffee with her. It amused her that her granddaughter fed the kid sandwiches, and whole pieces of fruit, and leftovers from she and her husband's dinners when the Kid had only three or four teeth to his name; another facial characteristic that made him appear more like a puppet than a real child. But not in a negative way, Grandma thought. More in a cute, adorable way.



"He's choking! He's choking!"



Grandma heard Mother yelling from inside the house. In a split second, Grandma was back inside. Mother was fumbling around with the telephone, attempting to call someone for help. Grandma observed the Kid for a second, to make sure he was, indeed, choking. Sure enough, the Kid's face was blue, and Grandma could tell no air was going in or out of the Kid's lungs.



Grandma stretched her arm out, and very firmly gave the Kid a punch in the belly, just below where his rib cage met in the middle of his chest. A lump of half-eaten bread and ham regurgitated from the boy's throat, and plopped down onto the carpet next to the dining table.



"I think he's okay, now." Grandma said, heading back outside to finish her grit and coffee. The Kid was crying like a banshee now, a literal wail of fear and pain.



Mother ran over and picked the Kid up, rocking him in her arms to comfort him. Grandma could hear her granddaughter cooing to the child, and almost crying herself, the event had scared her so much.



Grandma finished her smoke, and coffee, and said her goodbyes to her granddaughter, and the Kid. It took Mother quite a while to calm down after the boy's choking fit. Grandma had seen this a thousand times, though hardly remembered going through it herself it was so long ago; the first time parent confused and overwhelmed by the emotions of seeing her child hurt or in danger. It was normal, and satisfactory to her, that her granddaughter did behave in that way when the Kid began choking. Better for a young mother, in Grandma's opinion, to be overly concerned with the Kid's well-being, than not concerned enough.



After Grandma was gone, before Father arrived home from work, Mother put three drumsticks of chicken aside for the Kid, meaning to feed him before she and her husband were to sit down and eat. The choking incident had scared her so much, she set the drumsticks on the dining table, meaning to cut the meat off the bone in bite-size pieces, so the Kid could eat it without the risk of a repeat episode of the early afternoon choking drama.



She swore later, when Father was home and she was telling him the story, that she only took her eye off the plate of chicken for less than five seconds. But somehow, that had given the Kid enough time to climb up onto the table, grab a drumstick in either hand, and completely gnaw the meat off both of the bones.



Mother had turned to see the Kid sitting upright on top of the table, holding both bones of the skinned, and devoured drumsticks in opposing hands, his little mouth and jaw chewing vigorously on the last morsel of edible meat from the bone.



Mother froze in terror; absolutely sure the Kid would begin choking. The amount of chicken he had just swallowed, straight from the bone, and still cold from inside the refrigerator, had to be a greater mass of substance than the piece of ham sandwich he had choked on earlier in the day.



The Kid swallowed that last, fateful bite left in his mouth, and then stared up at Mother. Their eyes met for a long moment, until finally, they both blinked at the same time, and the Kid let out a horrendous belch, that confirmed, in an unpleasant way, that the chicken had cleared his esophagus, and that he was not choking.



The Kid immediately began banging the chicken bones onto the table, like he had been with the rattle and spoon when Grandma had been here, singing and chanting in his incomprehensible baby rant, seeming to demand, to Mother's awe, and slight, dismay, more food!

Firefly In Our Nest



Rain is coming
The Eaves are bent
Chicks are hungry
For the tasks we lent

Rain is coming
That the horizon sent
Crows are squawking
-Firefly in our nest

Storm of air and sea
Not spent
Earth is dry and hungry
From the Swallows
We held back
Gathered acorns stolen
From our net
Another hundred years
Is time
We hope to dry the stones
That wept

Tell the children
To forget
Of our ignorance
And what it meant
We let the water into stream
Too far along the inlet

-Father's angry
-Mother's weary

We played in Springtime
-Rusted Plow
We lazed in Summer
-Slaughtered Cow
Forgot our chores
And worldly dangers
-Winter Frost
Amongst the Most

-Firefly in our Nest

Bluejay Bully

The Kid sat on the couch, across from Grandpa, devouring a bowl of ice cream, in a similar fashion that crocodiles use to swallow their prey, at the same time, staring at the tattoo on his grandfather's arm. The tattoo was as old as the flesh that decorated it. The Kid was trying to make out what the tattoo was. It just seemed like a blob of mangled, blue ink, weathered by the sun for years and years, and further obscured by the wrinkled, liver-scarred flesh surrounding it.











The Kid's fascination with his Grandpa's tattoo suddenly switched focus when Grandma walked in. Grandma carried with her a cup of coffee, stained brown on the outside of the cup as the coffee inside of it, and also puffed intermittently on a stale cigarette she had re lit at least three times before rising to go into the kitchen for the coffee, and returning to the living room. The Kid was as fascinated by his Grandma's wrinkled face, especially the spider web of crinkled skin around her eyes, and at the corner of her mouth, as he was by Grandpa's tattoo. Grandma's face seemed almost plastered out of an ancient cast of wood. And, her beading, blue, youthful eyes jumped out of that plaster cast, and could hold the Kid's attention for hours at a time. He would stare at whatever she stared at; constantly looking back at her to receive some signal of actually SEEING what she saw, and if she looked right at him, he would look away embarrassingly, and then bolt his stare back at hers, laughing uncontrollably at the fact that she seemed to know the game he was playing, and seemed also to want him to see, and understand the things she did in the world around her.











"You gotta' earn that ice cream, Kid." Grandpa said, breaking the silence the room had become as he read the newspaper, and Grandma played magic tricks with her eyes.






"It's trash day, tomorrow. Go out and move the cans to the curb, so us old, poor folk can relax a bit longer."







With his command set in place, Grandpa got up, and went into the kitchen to heat himself a bowl of the same stew he ate everyday; always kept warm, and fresh inside a big metal pot on the gas burner of the stove.







"I don't want to take the trash cans out!" The Kid said, in a surprisingly insolent tone. Grandma blinked twice, her blue eyes shuttered privately in judgement of this child that had never spoke back to either her, or Grandpa in all of his four and a half years. Her mouth, also, in it's transfixed wrinkleage of a permanent frown, flinched a little.







"If Grandpa says to take out the trash cans, you better do it. He'll hit you. You sure can bet to get a spanking, at least, if you don't do what he says."







Something powerful moved through the Kid's mind, then. The idea that Grandpa's right arm, with the burly, indistinguishable design of some form of tattoo would, in fact, come cascading upon him in a violent fashion, terrified him. He ran outside, out the front door, to move the trash cans to the curb, as Grandpa had ordered him to do; realizing once outside, he did not even know which side of the house the trash cans were stored.







Before the Kid had time to search out the cans, he heard the gate on the far side of the house rattle, and swing open with a big CRASH! sound that held the Kid frozen in fear.







Grandpa appeared then, pushing one metal can out front of him, and pulling another behind him- both of them grinding across the driveway pavement with a noise that rose goosebumps on the Kid's flesh. Grandpa then turned, after smacking the cans down onto the street at the bottom of the driveway, and walked up behind the fence again to grab a plastic trash can that held the cut grass from the lawn, and the clippings, and weeds from Grandma's garden.







The sound the plastic can made across the pavement was not quite as ferocious as the metal cans, but it seemed to the Kid that Grandpa drug it extra rough, and slammed it double-hard into the street for extra emphasis.







"Did you tell that boy I was going to hit him if he didn't take the trash cans out?"







Grandpa was yelling at Grandma inside the house after moving the cans, while the Kid crouched by the front door, still in the front yard, afraid of going back in and having to face Grandpa's wrath.







The Kid could not hear Grandma's response, but a moment later, he could hear Grandpa yelling again.







"Of course, I was going to help him with the cans! But not after you scared him so bad, he run out of the front door to hide! You must want that poor kid to be scared of me! What's wrong with you?"







The Kid could Grandpa stomp off into the back of the house, where the kitchen was, and the backyard. He had noticed that Grandpa and Grandma spent most of their individual time in separate rooms of the house, and even slept in separate bedrooms. He just chalked this up in his childish, ignorant mind as the way all old people were, and didn't think too hard about it.







Grandma stuck her head out the front door then, and said, "Grandpa may need your help in the backyard, Kid. And if you don't hurry..." She paused slightly, and crossed her blue eyes like a clown.







"....he'll hit you!"







Grandma stuck out her tongue at the Kid, like a childish playmate his same age, and then disappeared into her bedroom, giggling, and slamming her bedroom door behind her, as if, hiding from the both the males in her house.







The Kid realized Grandma was just playing one of her crazy games, and so he went out to find Grandpa, not believing Grandpa would now hit him, or hurt him in any way, but still unsure of the nature of Grandma's game, and if Grandpa, as harmless as he truly was, got the joke of it any better than the Kid did, or not.







Hours later, out in the small backyard of the house, Grandpa sat on a wooden footstool, sipping on lemonade, and watching the Kid entertain himself in the yard. Grandpa had fed the Kid stew, and more ice cream, hoping the Kid would sleep, but the food and sugar had hopped the Kid up into a boundless energy; like the Tigger character from the Winnie The Pooh stories that Grandma read to him.







It took Grandpa a few minutes to figure out the game the Kid had invented for himself to play. A few pigeons wandered around the grass the way pigeons do, in endless, imperfect circles. The Kid would watch them, carefully, crouched down like a little Indian hunting.






Every few minutes, a large blue jay would fly down from the vine trellis next to the house, pecking at the ground where the pigeons circled erratically, sending the less-graceful birds into a titter of confusion, and march around joyfully; obviously, proud of his dominance over the patch of grass the pigeons were attempting to roam upon.







When the blue jay did this, the Kid sprang from his hunt-crouch, and chased the blue jay, wailing his arms, and growling like a dog, back up into the trellis, where it sat squawking in protest, but unable to defeat the small boy, who, after chasing the blue jay away, went back into his pigeon-defense crouch.







"I don't like that blue bird!" The Kid announced, after the fourth, or fifth time chasing the blue jay out of the grass.







"That's a blue jay, Kid." Grandpa said, pointing up at the trellis where the blue jay sat, looking down at the Kid, and patch of grass, and stupid pigeons.







"He's bigger and smarter than those pigeons. If they're scared of him, that's not his fault. He just wants to eat the seeds and other things in the grass like they do."







"I don't care about that!" The Kid declared, puffing up his chest, and looking angrier than Grandpa had ever seen him look.







"He's a bully! And I don't like him picking on those other birds."







"Well, I guess you're in charge, Kid."







Grandpa chuckled, and chuckled again when the kid took his same crouched position to wait for the blue jay to invade the grass, even though it looked like the pigeons had scattered completely, most likely, just as frightened of the Kid, as the blue jay.




Grandpa went into the kitchen, then, momentarily, to refill his glass of lemonade. When he came outside again, the Kid held a stick he had found in the yard, and was swinging it wildly up into the trellis vine, while the blue jay leaped about the vine out of reach of the boy's stick, but refusing to leave the sanctuary of the backyard.



"Well, Kid, you better finish that battle now that you started it."



Grandpa checked the back window, and looked into the kitchen to make sure Grandma wasn't going to suddenly walk outside and see her grandson chasing a bird with a stick. Most likely, Grandma had laid down for a nap or was busy with her needlework.



Then, Grandpa just stood, sipping his lemonade casually, watching the joust between the Kid, and the big, bad blue jay. A couple of times, it seemed like the blue jay threatened to fly down and peck the Kid on the head. But, the Kid was pretty good with the stick and kept the blue jay out of reach, although, he still could not quite drive the bird farther away than on top of the roof.



It was a little more interesting of a show to watch than the afternoon ballgame Grandpa had been meaning to turn on. He continued to watch, still sipping on his lemonade, wondering which party would run out of energy first- the kid, the bird, or the old man who could not sit comfortably in his footstool, as tired as he was, because he wanted the Kid's game to go on endlessly.

Tomorrow In Denial

Keeping secrets

About the future-

Where you want to go-

Where you want to be-

Who you want to surround you-

Is a self-defense mechanism, unlike

The denial of who we were yesterday,

And a feigned ignorance

That our past lives

Did not really exist according to who we are now



-I once lied, and lied, and lied

About my past and present self

Only to mask the insecurity

That I had only unrealistic notions

About some kind of future for myself



-Some of us learn at a young age

That lying about past events

Is a matter of survival within

An adult world that refuses to believe us

When we attempt to be honest about their tragic society



-Now, and forever after,

And without this vital knowleadge in our youth-

Our world remains steadfast and beholden

To the same truths as everyone on Earth



-And we can believe

That holding onto that false,

Innocent version of our personality

That we hold up to the world

Saves us somehow

From the truth of Earth's ugly,

All-knowing eye



-But be careful when you keep secrets

About the past from your future self



-You may walk into a room

Filled with people you had always

Planned to be around, disguised

In the cloak a long time ago you planned to wear



-And sitting, for you uncomfortably,

Is some remenant, some earth-caked corpse

Amongst all the future lies, that were true,

Honest in your heart and mind but now corrupted

By that single, living fossel of past remembered



-Come back to haunt you a little too soon,

Before the future could fully be envisioned



-And those that pile lies, upon more lies,

Until their cohorts are all just mirrors

Repeating each other's lies back to each other

Like a host of redundant, irritating gnats

Are the worst company anybody can keep



They are the very reason we stake out

A secret future full of lies

We keep deep inside- For if those lies

Are never revealed



-It is not quite failure, but a disapointment

We mention to someone someday

Also, noting before our passing

That life had to be lived the way it was



-And if survival is pertinant,

For ourselves, and for one another,

Than the only safe secret

Is one we keep that keeps us safe



-And damned to hell the liars that hurt people-



-You will notice the Earth surrounds them with mirrors

So the devil can find them

If they get lost on the way to hell



-And you will notice the mirrors

Change reflection

-And magnetic poles reverse

When the lies people present themselves to be

Scatter mythically in final resolution

Of a future beholden to the real events

Of an individuals true achievements



-For the mask worn in victory

Must also be worn in defeat

-The architecture of personality

-The underlying cause of an individual's goals

And reasons for existance-

Must be displayed to any beholder

In any place or time

As the true nature of the individual-



The fossel that gazes from across the room

-Invisible only to the falsehoods that attempt to hide it-

Shall be dug up, and stuck onto a shelf someday

Behind mirrors that do not reflect any judgement

Save a statement of facts undeniable

By anyone, or anything

That revels in adoration how Earth

Comes bearing gifts of sustenance

And discontent



-Often times wrapped in the same package

A Practice In Redundancy

I was hired at Callaway Golf Ball Company the year it formed, and fired, less than later.



The reason for my sudden departure, from what I considered the best job I had ever had, was an attendance issue ordered down from human resources, (much like a military order; that I learned rather suddenly is impossible to escape at a multi-billion dollar company) delivered in person to me by a manager that was a replacement, working for our golf ball plant, less than four months after he was hired to replace the manager who failed to report to us suspect employees, that we might be terminated if we showed up one or two times late for work.



This experience taught me that entering a workplace without prior knowledge of it's dynamics, lack of interpersonal knowledge, or real communication of it's economic stability leaves the slightly naive employee open only to the tolerance, or intolerance, of it's possibly slightly inept management team.



The day I was fired, (I worked nights, so slept most of the day.) I had a visceral dream about being at work all day, and observing my workmates discussing whom was going to be fired, and, of course, they knew it was me.



I was a complete idiot, of course, and drove the two-hour drive to Carlsbad and took it in the ass like a good little wanna-be soldier.



The dream itself was not the only indication that I was going to be released from my position. After three or four months of working there, I discovered our division of the company was losing mass amounts of money, and, only being the pet project of it's billionaire owner, if there were going to be any layoffs it would be us, and not the more profitable club division of the company.



Now, in a heavy economic recession, Callaway is suing Titalus; attempting to save face, and, once and for all, prove what Eli Callaway had been trying to prove his entire life; that some close confidant had been lying, and cheating, and stealing from him- selling his expensive secrets to a competitor, and profiting off of his losses.



In retrospect, I consider my personal experience with that company chalk full of mostly good experience; lacking only in the basic ethical standards that any young employee given a good opportunity with what he believes is a stable company expects of the management team directing him.



I found out shortly after being laid off that the manager of my shift that had lied and withheld information from my myself, and many other managers, was simply demoted to a normal daytime shift, and, therefore only shamed in front of his fellow employees, and not stripped of his livelihood, retirement, and benefits; like many of us who were terminated, or eventually laid off when it was revealed after Eli's death that the actual corporation he left behind had a huge financial deficit, most of his inheritance went to his family, as it should be, and even the managers and accountants that knew years ago it was near impossible to keep the company afloat, could not themselves afford to be honest with each other, but especially not to little piss-ant, material handlers like me.

Open Letter to President Obama From Concerned Citizen of San Diego

In the wake of your winning the Presidency of the United States, which came as a great jubilation to everyone I know, and in light of my observations, personal dealings (I have spoken in front of City Council once or twice), and real facts about the city of San Diego, that you, or anyone else in your administration can fact check, I must pleade with you that any money sequestered specifically for our city as part of your economic bailout plan, especially funds meant to house, feed, and clothe the homeless be closely monitered by federal officials.



San Diego city officials, including the current mayor, who has consistently mimicked a President Bush "What me worry?" attitude in his campaigns, and relationship with the media, the City Council, and all other city employees with any power over finances for the city are notorious for shady, closed-door dealings that have consistently, year after year, drove the cities deficit to near bankruptcy.



The pension scandal, that was well documented by various media outlets, left current city employees without any kind of retirement benefits, and put San Diego on the map, and well ahead of it's time, as far as this current recessive economy is concerned. This is especially tragic for the poorest of the poor- low income families, disabled and homeless war veterans, recovering addicts, and people suffering from the stigma of mental illness. The city of San Diego elite power players have proven over and over they have little or no concern for the impoverished, and will not, almost gauranteed, give any Federal stimulus money back to it's taxpaying citizens, at least not until their own selfish interests are paid for first.



There are many things I could add to this letter that concern me globally, or nationally, but this more immediate, local issue is the one I thought most important to write you about- if in fact, letters like these are ever read by people in power.



Thank you for being willing to be a democratic leader at this critical moment in world history.

Sincerely,

Ben McFadden

Many Thanks to Sight and Sound!

Local event planners Adam Rosen and Jon Block have been nice enough to add me to their guest list twice at their Walk The Walk events; most recently, this past Saturday at Planet Rooth Gallery.



These guys have been written up in City Beat, and The Reader already, so I won't go into great detail about the events they promote, except to say it is extremely rare in San Diego for collectives of artists and musicians to get such reliable, honest help in promoting events.



They have been very supportive of me, as well, by letting me bum around their events for free. The past six or seven months have been very difficult for me, especially with finances and finding steady employment. I can't possibly list here the great number of people who have helped me out in large and small ways. You should know who you are. Peace!

Rainbows Around The Moon

Disfigured; the Moon became full

Against her will.

The sky decorated her

With a halo of purple,

Gold, and scarlet.



She frowned down upon Earth;

So much younger, and less scarred

Than she,

Blaming it's abundance

For the veil of false beauty

She felt forced to wear.



She hid then,

Underneath a tarp

Of layered clouds; cursing

In bewilderment and emberassment

The small, harmless stones

That had damaged her flesh,

And wounded her pride.



But the comfort of an

Invisible cloak,

She knew would not hide her forever.



The day would break,

The storm would pass,

And the great stillness

Of star-lit summer skies

Would reveal her in possibly

A more hideous light.



There would be no tarp, or scarf

To hide within on fuller days,

And no magic ringlets

In which to decorate herself with

On the days she felt ugly and rejected

By her own angst and anymosity.



The end of Spring is Summer's rule;

When she skirts the horizon

Denying Eclipse, or Solstace

Beckons her, as well, with the tides,

And the snow-tops thawing.

She will claim she is warm inside

But who is it that trusts in a face

That always hides?



And who is it but the sun

-Earth detached in it's own restraint-

That would reach out to calm her,

In an attempt to show her beauty

Even as she turns a cold shoulder,

And folds to part ways?



I am one-

But she does not listen to me, either.



The lapping wake

On this hull set against the tides,

And the boom of wind on mainsail

Droned out my voice, long ago.



We are out looking for Dolphins

Where there are no school fish

To tempt them to the surface.

Ways Through The Thicket- 4 part poem

1.





The dragonfly always takes


The bee-line


Through the butterflies hazardous path.



There have been discussions
Concerning the "Control Of Chaos."
But it is not control the dragonfly seeks.



It is simply a more straightforward way


To reach one's destination
Than the rambling mess most bugs make of it.



You will see hummingbirds soon,


Many of them,
With the ability to hover, quiver,
And quickly pinpoint a resolution.



You will see shards of light
And scattered panes of glass
Blown about by an observer's contemplation.


It is another's vision you are witnessing-
And if you glimpse it for too long
Your own visions may be obscured.



But we don't worry too much these days
About why it is patterns do not remain
Upon the cracked pavement, forgotten parchment,



Or; how it is the roots of trees
Are easily uprooted,
But their trunks remain; like matchsticks
Spilled onto a porcelain floor.



The officials will declare this ground solid,
And the workmen will claim it can always be repaved-
How is it then, in any moment, quick and contained,


A person's life can become tentative
Like a birthday flame on a thin candle-
Wavering with every breath; easy to be spent.



2.



We see faces in the clouds


-Smiling, waving, or; grimacing, declaring-
Telling us if the day is happy or sad.



We kick twigs and leaves
Around on ground until the patterns they make
Content our superstitious sympathies.



The way the rain falls
-In slant, or peppered repetition-
Let's us know if the heavens
Are angry, or just quietly displeased.



Forget about groundhogs
Searching for shadow on symbolic days.


The hawks mating in the Eucalyptus,
And the doves on the telephone wire
Truly predict a barren winter,
And another sweat-soaked summer.



It is neither witchcraft,
Nor Shamanism,
We completely bend to.



It is all of the natural beauty,
Splendor, and drama


Bundled together that releases
Our sight into the minds of Others.



And they who awake


Remembering the same dream,
All at the same time,


All over the globe, in every country,
In every alphabet, of any color,
Look about the wasteland of forgotten images,
Memorizing faces that soon dismiss them,
Bottling memories that were long ago thrown overboard,
Sensing smell in movement- The way a parent holds
Her/his child, the way wet grass piles up
On the sidewalk after it is mowed, the way
The water laps into the kitten's mouth as she drinks it.
All wonder if there is any healing mud
That can salve wounds never scarred over.
The Voice in mind becomes obsolete then-


Our eardrums cease to reverberate for a moment-
As we watch the rain fall outside of our shelter
-It is not enough. Never enough.



3.



I learned as a child
The fastest way down a hill


Is moving diagnol; side-stepping the graded slope.



The easiest way, similarly,


Through square city blocks
Is to zigzag from one side-street to another,
As opposed, to walking "L" patterns on main streets.



I have learned recently

When the street sign reads, "Wrong Way-Do Not Enter."

It is the best way for a pedestrian

To find himself completely alone.




No one follows the foolish traveler

Down dangerous, unblocked

Train tracks.




And though he is considered a fool

The wise men, and high priestesses

Also walked that trial, though long ago.



In a city foreign to permanent improvement,

It is best to learn these tricks,

These ways through the thicket,

Because they have built city streets

Without crosswalks or sidewalks,

And created public transit that the public

Can barely afford, or maneuver upon.




-When I sleep outdoors

I face the rising sun,

Or, purposely lie where it is uncomfortable-

Because if a person does not keep moving,

In this fine city of Ghetto birds, and X-ray spotlights,

The icy stares, and frost bitten hearts

May freeze me to the ground




-Making future progression all the more difficult.




4.




You should know by now

The hardest button to button

Is the first one.




If you are clever,

You know which one that is-




The one at the breast,

Leaving the neck and waist lines free,

Securing the heart inside of the chest-




I have been out looking for werewolves

And enemies of our better passions,

And there are only a few.



The rest of Us wander among them,

Keeping a safe distance,

And not harboring any material items,

Or deep-trusted secrets

That they could steal from us anyway.




In a bramble of thorns, and sharpened bottlenecks,

You may see me- Resting, sleeping, or dazing about-




But only for a moment. A moment is enough.

Innaguration Day Poem- First Thoughts In Symbol

Over six months ago

We witnessed the dying of embers

Of that red breath that swept

Our fires from our shores

Onto those ice-laden plains of frustration.



A giant ladle fell from the sky.

Whether this spoon we would bring

To our mouths

Was fire-proof, buffered silver,

Or a worn, toasted wood

We did not know.



The thing we saw that troubled us

Was how the floorboards, and roof-shingles

Cracked in Summer, and leaked in Winter.



We requested the long Spring,

Full of light and play,

And this was given to us by those

Who wished to distract us.



We smashed our boots and bare feet

On a floor of bloodied splinters,

We broke our hands and fingers

Climbing walls to ignite the sky.



We knew we had no control;

The ladle scooped us all up

And carried us on into a future

Without revealing the final destination.



Now, in this symbolic and historic moment,

Of what God's history charitably gave to us,

We are collecting dull coins and stitching together

Shredded dollars, hoping their age and wisdom

Is a strong enough yoke to gather us in,

Egg us on, and protect us from each other



As we rebuild here on this shattered plantation

-Where ghosts of our forefathers have forgotten our names-

Strands of chromosome intertwined, seeking solitude, but unable

To stretch farther from each other than they ever have before.



We will be fed, and we will be housed;

But who it is that fills our plate,

And what type of structure that surrounds us

Once again, is out of our control.



We need real Democracy. And no magic gift from the Heavens

Ever unwrapped itself, and wore itself

Without help from our hands, our force of will



-Let it be known as strength over power,

Forgiveness over judgement- Concepts

Not always well known by a frustrated populace

Tired of extinguishing each other's hate and greed,

But unable to afford the thatches and posts

Necessary to make this house strong.

Stealing Nature Symbols In Forewarning Of Darkness

In a deep growl of angered

Dingo's throat

There comes a slight call of remorse-



No one knows where the vanquished lie

When the tarps laid down by sympathisers

Dissapear, or sink wearily beneath the trodden moss.



The tools that began, and built

Civilization

May be better put to use molted down,



Like an unused junkies blood through syringe,



Laid to waste in liquid fire,

And stored as hunks of metal junk

To be put to better use someday.



Clock towers, and Archetypal sculptures

Stand erect over war zones

Untouched by bombs, or destruction.



One chimes on the fifteen mark,

The others stand silent; as if unchallenged.

We accept this as a polite delusion.



The tended gardens and well-shaped hedges

Wish to correct these overly hopeful idols.

The greenery beneath the Rooke cries out,



"We have only recently been planted,

Fertilized, and left to grow.

Why is it statues without name

Dare their adversaries to destroy us?"

The Monoliths had no answer



For their fate beheld repetitions

Recurring since the birth of architecture.

They had watched the lawns, reshaped,



And the streets, repaved,

And the glory of Humanity

Be sacrificed for their salvation



Again and again; until they became as hardened

As the demolition machines' spike,

And flare that could destroy them, as well.



The serpents sought a new way

The apple could be used, eaten,

Or symbollically represented.



But the apples had already been accused

Of treason, and exhaulted down

Into history beyond reason.



They gathered their rotten cores,

Threw in unedible acorn shells,

And offered themselves to maggots, instead of men.



The Wizards, Saints, and Prophets

Were also tired of searching for deeper meaning.



-There was something so simple

In the way the plan had gone wrong.



Excess- Too much of everything,

For everyone, all of the time.



The supplies of logic were running out.



The wealthy begged the poor

For financial advice.

While the Oracle sought wisdom

From sandstone slipping with the tide.



Where is content to be found

If the leaves blown for purpose

Never stop scattering, or churning,

And cannot rest long enough

To attempt regrowth?



The Dingo's growl sat unpleasently in the ear

Of Hyenas and Jackals who were just

Beginning their screams and yelps.



The Coyote barked out, "I can play that game, too."



And the Prairie Dog rose an eye, an ear,

From the tundra of once plentiful soil

And winked-



The time had come again to shift foundations.



And all the dogs knew

Termites and mold

And crumbling terraces were plentiful.



The Archways and uphill aquaducts shuddered.

They were tired of rebuilding

Upon land that could sustain them

If the Earth's tremors allowed as much.



Lizards refused to rise from shadow

As Hawks and Falcons

Outhunted Eagles and Buzzards.



The warning screamed across trees,

Without wind to startle them,

And became magnetic; like a leaf,

Or twig stuck upright from the ground.



There is magic in the search for water

Throughout barren land.

But there is misery in the dry husk,

Without any fruit to offer,

And the water pump without dribble



-Turning cold, and rusty,

And insignificant as asphalt

Where buildings will never rise,

And life will never tread.

Borrowing Symbols From Nature For The Purpose Of Bringing Light

A Nightingale is nothing

But a morning bird

Impatient for the breaking's of day.



Daring worms out of mud

Mosquitoes out of thicket

And the sun itself out from



That veil of earth she sleeps under.



Neither blue jay, nor pigeon

Fool themselves with the trappings

Of dark before daybreak.



The raccoon and cottontail

At times, mutter complaint

About that impatient bird with hungered beak.



The sun, as she sleeps, will wink once

From the moon's Quartered eye

And, if you do not pay attention



The next time that gale shrieks

It may truly be daybreak

Though the stars have not yet sank.



It is only the mist, the morning dew,

That can tell the difference

At any time of day or night, between

The chill before sunrise and the Illusion

Of warmth from that eye of moon in still night.



The owl, also, plays games

With the moon and stars.

She may hoot and whistle all night



Scaring prey hither and thither,

All around her until morning,

Or, even afternoon before she strikes.



The grass and the weeds and the marsh

Only follow dews command, and thirst

For rain in darkness, or light.



Gentle breezes and stirring streams

Through spring and summer play,

Spiders decorate a moth's highway



Enriching their nets with catches of the wind.



Early light moves all-

Day dwellers out if their night trappings

And the night crawlers back under earth or stone.



Such is the way the world begins

Over again each day, each night;

We would hope for all Eternity.



But the days grow longer, or shorter

By nights demand, and the nights

Often times, do not beckon the sun.

In great storm, neither sun nor moon

Can protect the creatures roaming on Earth.



From the bubble of atmosphere in it's promise;

It's control of recycled abundance

-Mother Ocean's concurring Empire,

Beheld by Pelican escaping to Sea

The chance, at last light, for that breeze



To fold warmly under it's Maternal Wing.

Three Novellas Ebook at Bargain Basement Price!

In case anybody out there IS interested in purchasing my Three Novellas book as an Ebook, I discovered today that the price is $9.00. That is cheap, as shit. But, the book is not shit. It's more like a good manure you can fertilize your brain with.



www.chipmunka.com Three Novellas, Ben McFadden

New Stuffs About Me

Okay- I have a new job. I start next week. It has something to do with Marketing and Sales, which I have been wanting to get more experience with. But, (there is always a catch, you know?) I go through training Monday-Friday next week, and will only find out then if it actually is a really good job, or not. Does not pay extremely well, but could lead to full time gig, commissions, etc. I'm not going into details until the end of next week. I'm superstitious like that.


2nd Thingy- Big News! I am going to have a second book published by the same publisher that published my Withdrawals From A Legal Drug book. Except, the book is not about me, at all. It will be called, Three Novellas and is a work of fiction. Expect constant emails from me goading all of you into purchasing it. It will, of course, go through the test run of an ebook, like the last one, and then about six months or so from now, it will be sold as a paperback. I'm very excited because it took me a long time to write the three stories in the book, and twice as long to get it into publication. (I am now doing a "Self-High-Five!")


3rd Other Thingy- A kind woman I know who owns a small shoe store named Milo's Shoes on Ray Street is having a raffle, and shindig, this Saturday, the 10th of January, the same night as North Park Nights (new name for Ray At Night.) She is also selling a hand-painted pair Vans Shoe's that I won in another raffle two or three years ago. I did not personally paint the shoes she is selling for me, and I have not decided with her about whether or not the pair I am selling will be raffled off, or just remain for sale in her store for eternity. For those of you who do not know, North Park Nights, as a continuance of the longstanding Ray At Night event, has been struggling with attendance and art purchases pretty much all of last year. Several of the galleries, and independant stores in that area have either gone out of business, or changed ownership so many times nobody knows who fucking owns them. The artists are not selling much work, and this keeps new galleries from opening up, and, in a larger context, makes any vital business in the North Park area suffer a little bit. SOOOOOOOO- Go out and support Milo's, North Park Nights, buy some raffle tickets, drink some beer and wine for donation prices, and at least LOOK at the art. Peace!

After The Tourists Leave- Short Story

Mikey and Tom played their normal games on the beach as the tide slowly went out at the same time as the sun began to set into the western horizon.



They dug up sandcrabs, sometimes killing them, other times using them like action figures and having pretend wars on the remnants of the sand castles they had purposely smashed hours ago. They ran out as close to the water as possible as the tide sucked back into the current. Then, they would run back up onto the beach away from the incoming swell; in the end, only running out into the water to bodysurf, and wrestle in the waves.



Their mothers sat in lawn chairs well up the sand from the water. Another of Mikey and Tom's games was to slowly work their way either north or south down the beach out of their parent's eyesight; experimenting in a reckless way with their mother's patience and temper. Normally, the women did not bother to chase them down and come back to where they could watch the boys from their lawnchairs but, occasionally, one of them, usually Tom's mother, would stroll up and down the beach until she found them. The two mothers trusted the boys on the beach, in and out of the water. They both could swim excellently, and already knew almost every other local that sat on the sand, or swam or surfed in the ocean.



"Should we pack up and get these kids cleaned up for dinner?"



Mikey's mother asked Tom's. Tom's mother replied-



"Yep. I think it's that time."



They debated for a few moments where to eat, and who's house it would be more convenient to wash them off at. The women only lived two or three miles from each other. They decided to drive to Mikey's mother's house for the cleanup session so as to be able to walk afterward to the restaurant they had chosen to dine at.



After they had bundled up their lawnchairs, blankets, and towels, Tom's mother declared-



"Before we leave, I'm going to pick up some of this trash the tourists left behind."



She called Mikey and Tom over from where they were playing on the sand. The boys were hungry, and a little tired; but like most pre-teen children had an endless abundance of energy that both impressed and wore out their parents. The beach was the perfect place to set them loose for hours at a time because the women could relax, swim, converse, or read while the boys exhausted each other in the sand and water.



Tom's mother directed them southward down the beach that during the day had been overpopulated with tourists and locals alike. There was quite a bit of litter. Mostly, fast-food wrappers and random scraps of paper. People who did not live in the area would often times treat the beach, or surrounding park areas like a movie theatre; as if, it had been put there for their specific amusement and imagined that the incoming tide wiping away their mess into the ocean was natural and acceptable.



"How much longer do we have to do this?"



Tom complained, after half an hour of picking up litter and disposing it into the city trash cans that lined the boardwalk.



"We're going to keep picking up trash until the entire beach is clean," Tom's mother answered.



Mikey and Tom looked at each other, and then looked up and down the beach at the miles of trash-laden shoreline, and then looked at each other again; each with a defeated, hang-dog weariness. They were tired from playing in the sand all day, and both of them were very, very hungry.



Mikey's mother laughed, and carried her things over to the concrete seawall, set them in the sand, and lit a cigarette. It seemed as good a day as any to teach the boys a morale lesson. Also, she knew Tom's mother was almost as hungry and tired as the boys were. She was curious to find out how much stamina Tom's mother had in keeping the two energetic boys moving up and down the beach disposing of litter.



The sun was down now and the last warm rays of light were gone. The cool air from the ocean, that seemed refreshing during daytime hours, was now a painful, chilly ache on the boys wet and sandy skin.



They picked up trash as fast as they could, with Tom's mother behind them, scooping up little bits of paper that they missed. Mikey's mother remained on the seawall, chain-smoking, and also getting cold, still hungry, and beginning to lose her patience.



"Come on, Mom," Tom complained. "We just cleaned like half-a-mile all by ourselves. We're fucking freezing out here!"



"You don't know what freezing is," Tom's mother replied. She was about to reprimand him for cursing, also, but then she began to laugh herself at how ridiculous it was to expect these two children to clean the entire beach. Her back was sore from bending over to pick up the scraps of litter, and she was beginning to get cold in the night air, as well.



Mikey's mother was not being a good example, either. She continued to sit up on the seawall, smoking cigarettes, and guarding the lawnchairs and other items she and Tom's mother had brought with them to the beach. She had the sleeves of the sweatshirt she was wearing pulled down over her hands to keep them warm, except for two fingers that held the butt of her lit cigarette dangling out far enough that she could take drags off of it.



"That's enough," Tom's mother finally announced.



The three of them had been cleaning for almost two hours. Tom's mother led the two boys to the seawall where Mikey's mother was waiting for them.



Before they left, Mikey and Tom both turned to look at the clean stretch of beach they had created. Tom's assertion of a "half-mile" was a gross exaggeration, but there was certainly over one-hundred yards of clean sand; littered only by the rotting seaweed that always decorated the beach.



They could clearly see the division of where they had begun and ended cleaning, and the still-littered areas of sand on either side of that stretch.



"It looks good, huh?" Mikey said to Tom. "The part we cleaned."



"I guess so," Tom answered.



Tom was still embarrassed that his mother had made both of them do what they had just done. But what Mikey didn't tell Tom was that he was equally embarrassed about his mother going up to the seawall lazily, and watching the three of them clean without helping at all.



The entire ride to Mikey's house in the car, and the entire time they cleaned up to go out to dinner, the two boys were silent, listening to their mothers happily chat about anything that was on either of the ladies minds; both women seeming to forget about the lesson Tom's mother had tried to teach them at the beach, and both boys still silent about the pros and cons of beach cleanup after the tourists had left.

1st Post for New Year- A Poem, of course

Thoughts Across Hallways

-Banter Contained In The Mind





1-



The closer we came to the marble

The louder a reverberation we felt.



Couples married, but hardly committed,

Flew out of open windows into

A setting sun of lost love and

Dying passion.



Ravens and black widows

Put on a false war of preconceived evil,

While the white doves

Sought out blood to decorate their feathers with.



In any sacred place of worship,

Or tomb,

Normal conversations were droned out

By the Ears and their way of listening

That in itself held a noise, a sound,

A different kind of reverberation

-an Echo-

Of the conscious mind within the atmosphere

That the converts and hypocrites

Refused to give notice to

-Even as IT rebounded and replayed

Off of their domineering aura.



2-



When the winter storms grew tired

Of decorating the land with newness,

And the Eclypse was seen,

But unrecognized.



When people grew so tired of Shadow

They wished to extinguish the Sun.



When the red stains

On the feathers of gulls and their perches

Became an ignitable fuse of lust

And adornment.



When, for the Elm's sake,

Bits of dust were spared becoming mud

From the storms Summer borrowed from the Moon.



In a passage, where the hallway thoughts transversed,

Children come of age in Eras unnamed,

And not yet studied,

Learned of their elders bitterness and loss-

Gathering in their own information

About what to claim as lost or stolen

After their personal Democracies

Had run their course.



Tigers and Ostrich

Were the new Deities

Of those that could neither

Fight nor flee.



Silverbacks cracked open pistachios,

Instead of walnuts,

Because their tools had become too complex

For their violent fingers worn by age.



Dogs hunted in packs

-For that was the season.



And a serpent's head rose

Out over a place it never had before

-Allowing the floodgate of inner-repression

Out of it's little shell-

And into the light like a sharpened dagger

Across an unscarred palm.



3-



It took a while for the Oxen

To realize the plow they pulled

Weighed twice as much as the incentive

That waited for them after the work was done.



The farmer refused to crack his whip-

Bent and stooped from age

He looked to his children to continue the passage.



They ran out into the field before harvest

Whispering to the soil-

Begging for more profit

Than was afforded the Oxen.



A white, static storm

Took nations up in arms.



People's inner-dialogues

Were muted by the pulse

Of a popular kind of insanity.



It was not fashionable

To wear your true self

On your sleeve.



Who was it

That saw the sky

And, cried "Night!"



Who was it

That saw the ocean

And, cried "Depth!"



Who was it

Who saw the land

And, cried "Vastness!"



It had all been said and done before.

There was no heading West

For the West was blown-out

And broke,

And overcome.



There was no returning

To where our grandfathers

Had layed out from.

For their world was muck-

Lost to a history we shall never know,

Or ever truly understand.



There was no leaping,

As much as we may have wanted,

Into our children's future world.

After the embryos had thawed

Our minds melted a little-

It was impossible to return

To the indecent state

Of our own youth

-Lost and foretold-

And lacking the pure innocence

Our forebearers had wished for us.



The children who inherited the land

Sold the soil, but not the air above it,

To billionaires who had run out

Of products to sell and investments to make.



And then began the foraging,

And the criminilization of happiness,

And the pursuit of survival

In a land of pocketbooks emptied

By hard wear and turmoil-



The spinning of a clock of uncertainty

That drew thin the line seperating

Indecency from virtue.

Suits For Funerals

The man with the long, sad eyes

Hovers among the row of dress pants

And matching blazers

Comparing the size he may

Fit in now

And the size he was

At the age he bought his first suit.



He moves slowly, unwillingly

Toward the row of

Jacket and pant combinations.

He stretches his arms into a

42 Regular-

Amazing himself with the fact

That his guess of jacket size is correct.



He sees his friends and relatives

In his mind

As he forces himself into the dressing room

With three different dress pants

-All three of equal length

And varietal waiste size.



The smallest waiste size is correct.

The length, however confounding,

Is too short. He stands in the pants

Confronting his reflection

In the full-length dressing room mirror,

Wearing pants snug about his waiste line

But far enough up his shin

That he feels foolish, and small.



He pictures himself in front of a crowd

Of everyone who has ever known him

Delivering a speech of refinement

And excellence; the entire time

Attempting to hide behind the podium

So the audience is not distracted by

His socks that dangle glaringly

Out from under the high-water pant legs.



He listens from the dressing room

To a young couple on the sales floor

Discussing their upcoming wedding

And choosing ties to watch the groom's

Outfit.



He holds his jeans in one hand

And the dress pants in the other,

Overhearing the young couple's conversation

With an urgency he has not felt

In years.



He is suddenly in a hurry.

This somber, unwanted search

For a jacket and pants that fit,

And match

Has accellerated without his control.



He wants out of the dressing room,

Out of the store so passionately,

He leaves only buying a suit jacket

That is his size

Without the matching pants;

Dreading the act of having to come back

Or shop at any other store again.



"Good enough to be buried in."



Is what his tailor had said to him

The day he was fitted for a tux

Before his first wedding

Many, many years ago.



The statement had seemed humorous

Even with it's ominous undertones.



It had made him relax

And forget about being nervous

Before the Big Day.



There are no Big Days

In later life, however.

There are good days

Both sentimental and heartwarming,

There are times with loved ones

Both enriching and charming and quaint

-But when one is buying suits for funerals,

Instead of for celebrations,

The shame of leaving the store

Without the complete purchase

Floods the senses with negativity

That at times

Neither tears nor compassion can cure.



At home; the dark jacket

Lies in it's garment bag

Not even hung up, or pressed properly,

The man sits, not even able to look at it,

Waiting for it to be worn.

As if, the suit bought for a funeral

Wears him; while he is just an inanimate object

-And the jacket itself is the body

That moves between pews

In an endless wake- Repeated

In a trance by all the bodiless garments

That wish to bid farewell to each other

As another of them is laid into the ground

-Unmoving, broken; slightly flawed and crumpled

-The bags of garments relentlessly

Stacked upon each other for all eternity

Their zippered casings

Interlocked, interwoven

-The trappings of a maze of earth's age-

Many too young

To be thrown into that mess

Of unreplenished humanity.

The Invisible Generation- A Children's Tale For Future Historians To Banter About

Many years ago in a land I sit in now, a genius writer, one of the main reasons I ever enjoyed reading or writing journalistic essays at all, labeled my generation, a generation younger, one may say, than the "Y" Generation, simply "Generation Z."

Hunter S. Thompson is the writer I am referring to, and the point of his labeling our generation in such a lazy way was that few of us, if any, at the time had made strong headway in defining the slight generation gap as being any different from the previous, and equally lazily labeled "Y" Generation.

(This is an old poke in the ribs carried on from one generation to another so many times throughout history it is such a rag-tag kind of insult, us laZy generations completely ignore it, and hope someone can come along with a less insulting identity for us.)

Well, as magical things happen to lazy people sometimes, technology and the corporations that create it stumbled upon the greatest fantasy world for us to live in of all time- Our own lives. They unwittingly created, with a little help from us, an alternative reality so similar to our own, but different in only a slightly subtle way, that we believe it is normal, and sound, and just.

The reality I am about to describe has yet to be clearly defined, and I also have a difficult time explaining it to people in conversation. Which is why I believe future generations will banter about this phenomena.

Case in point- Language, possibly more important than toolmaking abilities, differentiates humans from other species in a very distinct way. And, written language, most importantly, may be the form of communication most important for historians in deciphering how people lived in the past.

Historians have always studied people's letters, along with literature and journalism, as a means by which to understand how ordinary people lived their lives, in any time period. The Voice of the people, and I mean people who were not necessarily political figures and have no celebrity status is recorded in letters and journal entries, which give us a fair and balanced view of their world, their personal lives, their opinions, and their relationships in a more realistic way than modern technology now affords us.

Another literary figure that I greatly admire and that influenced me at a younger age even more than Thompson, is Jack Kerouac. Almost more important than his novels, which have influenced subsequent generations after the Beats in a profound way are the letters he left behind. I believe these have been compiled into only two volumes. Not only did he write many letters to his literary peers that influenced his own style of writing, and also predicted the plot line of a novel like On The Road, he also wrote letters to friends and family members that were not artists, poets, or writers. The first volume, which I read and studied in my early twenties, contains letters he wrote to people between the late nineteen forties, and early nineteen sixties.

These were very important letters for me personally as a creative inspiration. He recorded his life in life letters much more thoroughly, and in intensely more detail than any of his novels could possibly contain.

This is not new for any writer, or even people who did not consider themselves writers at all, to do with consistency throughout their lives all through the twentieth century, and, of course, in centuries before that, as well.

I also used to write letters to family members and friends before I relied almost exclusively, as many people do these days, on email for my main mode of communication.

The advent of email as the basic form of communication, especially including easy-to-use networking sites such as Myspace, and Facebook, is a fixture in our society both good and bad, in my opinion. Good, because it is a completely rapid means of communication. Instant messaging, and texting, as well, are exactly what they say they are- an instant, almost perfect means of communicating with other people, without any delay caused by the technology itself, and without any of us having to physically dial a telephone to reach another person.

There are various ways to criticize technology like this, but I believe the worst thing about it, that may not be truly taken into account until our generation is elderly, or even hundreds of years from now when historians and sociologists are piecing together the remnants of our current society, and our personal histories is that we may be dangerously close to leaving behind almost no written record of our lives at all. Journaling and letter writing are almost non-existent in our society today. People email, text, and blog but more often than not these little bits of dialogue and opinion sketches lack the profound nature of a historic document; the way a long-winded letter might, even if it is written by someone who is not of notorious nature, or in the public eye in any way.

The idea of our generation becoming invisible to future generations is enhanced because of the lack of a sustainable body of written word by us, even with the creation of reality television, and an increasing popularity of documentary movies being produced.

What we lose in a digital recording being it audio, or visual is the true Voice of the people, unhindered by stage fright associated with a camera being in our face, or being surrounded by our peers when we speak our feelings and opinions.

Even in an email that is not for the purpose of a quick "nice to chat" message the actual record of the email could be lost to history forever. Techies claim any email on any computer can be retrieved from the hard drive if deleted. But how many of us obsessively transfer files when we upgrade our desktops or laptops, or compulsively back things up onto disk if they do not immediately seem sustainably important?

Possibly, sometime in the future someone may create a technological advancement that makes it even easier for a person to store and retrieve vital, as well as unnecessary data that is electronically transmitted.



But in today's age of paranoid thinking when even critical data from government computers can be stolen, or even simply disappear, email as a historic document just does not exist unless it is printed, or published through a third source. This creates a vacuum of invisible information, some that is vital to all of society in very important ways, and other information that may only be on a personal level but still important to the individual, or even future generations as a historical document that is simply transmitted and then forever forgotten.



The man that wanders into the desert to never be seen again may only leave behind a final text, or phone call, instead what is really important; the final words of his life, that are easier to store and decipher off of a printed, or handwritten page, than they are in an electronic database that can be destroyed with the touch of a button.

White Flags Like Cigarette Butts Litter The Ground

1-



I was walking the long trail-



Immune to the bruises and scrapes

And swollen knee and elbow

I had blessed myself with

Two days before



The sun had yet to shine-



The late evening grew colder

With entrenchment of uphill grade

And the plod-plod of my feet

Seemed never ending



-In the same way it felt reminiscent

And extremely familiar



We have all walked this road before

Some by choice, by strength of will

Others; because the chill had come

And they had not contained enough warmth



I had been warm for years and years

Rekindling a fire of stability

And tranquility through struggle

But never with so remorse

That it kept me hindered permanantly



-I slept in a puddle of mud

And enjoyed it's healing transendence

-I swam across a lake of tears

Admiring the design of water upon me

I became so warm I sank into it

-Cringing from any frost or chill

That nipped or prodded at me



The long trail I walked

Leveled only if I kept my feet upon it



-I was distrusted

By those that previously had loved me

-Unfed

By those that had sustained me

-Turned away

By people who once comforted me

-Left astray

By those that once employed me



A helping hand

Always prodded me along

I was never completely broke

Never submerged too long

Always boyant-Head above dangerous waters-

Even if the help I received

Forced me further from where

I believed I belonged

-At least it was help



People cared, and that was good

My heart followed that logic

Even though the passions of my heart

Are very rarely logical



The thing that bothered me most

-Beyond the scope of my own form of suffrage-

Were the white towels

People threw into the road

-The road that begrudged them

Any confinement of ordinary life-

Like used cigarette butts

They lined the trails and streets

That they had once ran on as children

Feeling brave



The nettles and mosquitos of self-doubt

And the flies and bedbugs

Of insecurity

Allowed people to leave their betterment

-Their hope-Their wish for salvation-

Crumpled up on the ground

-In the form of a white towel

-Or rag-Left behind

For someone like myself to step over

-Feeling sadness for the treachery of the trail

As it too suffered the littered scars

Of those that could not fight on any longer.



2-



I understand now

The wisdom given to me years before

By a man that had slipped down into the cracks

-This poverty could inflict anyone

-And why not me?

I had never been good at saving money

The days that wore on in my good life

Were filled with recklessness and wastefulness

I had teetered by for many years

Scraping the mixing bowl of the lower middle-class



-But as the foundation shifted

Out from underneath the feet

Of that great economic majority

That held our society in place

I was one of the first I knew to take my place

In the soup kitchen line

-That reminded me of what that wise man had said

And kept me humbled in recollection

-Hand outstretched for bread-

That I was only human just like the rest

-Dependant on compassion from fellow man

And subject to humanities cruel forms of judgement,

Punishment- The gifts we give to each other

That are not requested, but cannot be returned

Or ignored- Only re-gifted for others suited to be judged.



3-



Reality kicks in at daybreak-



The sun appears out of thickets of fog

And illusions of buildings that will always stand

It's shards and blades cut sharp through

The delusions that cling to the night

-Ice-crusted Pixies melt

-Coyotes prey left torn empty and cast off

-The day birds awake-Cawing to each other

-The shrouded cloak and safety of darkness

Is ripped to shreds in a single moment

With baby-blue and pink from the east

Herding recessive hues further from

The sight and sound of awakened earth



OPEN and WELCOME signs appear

In storefront windows

-Delivery trucks with their hoardes

Of disposable merchandise arrive

-Ramps lowered-Boxes stacked-Dollies in motion



The freeway and the intersection

Become a bustle of passing cars

And obtrusive stares sounding out

Daily frustrations



-The concrete awakens, as well-br>
Becoming just a little colder

-Even as the sun falls upon it



-A hand reaches out from beneath a tarp

-A finger exposes a sleeping eye

To the new day just a little bit different

From all the others>
-Yep, it's the sun again

Scaring all those night spirits away

And letting the daylight haunts

Out of the shadows and into a reflection-

Bold, sun-charred reality-

Glare of daylight exposing our better face

-And if you don't like what you see

Where is the medicine?



4-



We are Plantersmen-



We bare sons and then we plant them

Head first into the ground

So neither darkness nor light can touch them



Daughters are the same-



We fill their eyes with sand

So the water can neither enter

Nor escape



But they all have sight in mind

That allows them to recollect

Tragedies and falsehoods existing

Far back beyond common time

-As the earth erodes

And the universe around it

Either extends, or envelops,

Or curves

-People plod along the same line of reason-

Survival is an afterthought in comparison

To an overwhelming chaos of their emotions

And emotive misguidance

-Rome did not rise or fall in a day-

-Ancient Egypt stagnated as slowly as

The Pyramids continued decay-





These ghosts still haunt us-



The desire of tyrants gone mad-
Either with or without the people's will



The expansion of armies

Forgotten and tossed away-br>
Either in victory or defeat



The need to breed and populate to such

An extreme we are overrun with each other-

Whether or not we have any plans

For how the earth or our children

Will cradle each other



Or, how either of them will cradle us-

Somewhere the last living soldier of a war

We pretend has nothing to do with us

Is sighing a final sigh

While his grandkin storm a tumult

Pull a trigger, release a pin, push a button

-And the cycle begins again and again

-When will it stop?- This denial of war

As forefather of each generations poverty



Do not tell me the two are not related

-A plow moves through a field

Planting seeds for next years harvest

-But only after the enemy has been driven away

-Or, is down the road selling food stamps for whiskey

-Wondering why Father has gone missing, and begging

For the long night to come.

Crossbows Turned Toward The Sky

The healing mud had turned to dirt

The saltlicks had formed to crystal

The ringlets around the moon

No longer promised rain.



Even cactus

That once outperformed

More lush greenery

Left it's drying and gnarled

Tendrils to drift onto the ground.



The crossbows were out.

The sky pleaded with once

Well-fed and enamored citizenry.



A day had come that once had passed.

A time had come that history

Wished to never repeat again.



In the Eden of our awakening

-Dawn crisp with overindulgence

Of fire-eating and persecution-

Black magic consumed

A wish of betterment

For a time lapse not forgotten.



The crossbows were out

-The targets were empty-

The sheaths were empty

-The fields dry of blood-

Imaginary massacres

Comb-stuck in the mind

Of wanna-be assassins

-Hunger driving sane people

Out into the street

Like zombies and leches

That had forgetten the sky knew their names.



The crossbows were out

-Steel over steel searching for answers-

The crossbows were tight with agony

-Whom do we strike?-

-Whom do we kill?-

-What is it out there that requests

We threaten the sky with our mortality?



The sky swallowed

And refused to beckon the rain.



Earth's petty shelving

Allowed remorse to fugily persist

-And those that held the crossbows

Marched wearily into the night-

-Arms ready for any sign of enemy-

-Fingers pointed-ready to fire

Even in sleep-

-The demons awoke on edge-

-The climbers of mountains

Regained their strength-



-A violent candidate

Conceded without surrendering-

All across the demarcation

-Of sky and wealth and untapped diversity-

The stars shown like pheasants-

The sattelites winked

Like criss-crossing fireflies-

The emptiness and vastness of it all

Beckoned the hunters to release their bows

-For within the claustrophobia

Of planet earth

People felt consumed and hindered

By the unjust laws they placed upon each other

And the guilt of prophecies

Long passed-but still never heeded.



It was the emptiness of sky

They dove into in hopes

Of salvaging any of their cluttered wisdoms

From eternal mothball rott

-The dawn of new generations had come

-And befitting a paradise of lost dreams

And endless reincarnation of dull hope

-The saviors of compassion and morality

Fitted their youth with new weapons

-A crucifix that hid an easily drawn blade

-A textbook with the pages cut

In order to transport ammunition

-And the most basic weapon

-Invented before logic and reason



-It was hate-



-Instilled in the mind of children

Who's minds were as deep as any ocean

And who's imaginations extended further than the sky

-Cycles began again like the gears and widgets

Of the sun and moon

-As they circled around ego-centric earth

-Nearly on fire-Nearly drowning-

But always doused-Always just afloat

Always just a hilt above complete disaster

-Hovering there-In the kind of calm waiting

That made the hooves twitch nervously

Below the stone throwers feet.

Spirits Out For Harvest

Flowers invinsibly traded

Lie disbanded

Underneath crumb cake coffe tables

Where the birds have forgotten

To collect their nectar



I have begun

Hiding my face in shadows

To appear as a villain

So trustworthy people are forced

To look closely for any goodness from me



Within these shadows

Where the broken stems rest

And the discarded feathers are kept

The minds dials and temperature gauges

Are stuck on yesterday's readings



This sad era is ending

-In tune with the decades-

Here, where we dared to cross

The current's meager broth

In a little boat guided by broken oars



No one moved against the wind

Fearing the fish bodies that floated

About our moat

Would slow our progression

Into a singular stagnation



Those that picked up the stone

Too early, or too late

May have forgotten

Of it's rough edges

And purely cold center



No one believes

In the existence of honesty anymore



The shadows that hide my better features

Are the skeletons of a closet

I cleansed long ago



If this dust

Or if this decrepit reasoning

Is of any worth or value



If the road

We walk on continues onward

With it's cracks and divets



If there is hope

Even only in simple things



If gods could communicate

Without disfranchising each other



If the storm on the ocean

Could bring moisture to parched land



And if the tractors,

And plow

Could extend a never-ending line

Of resolution with

Or without forgiveness



It would need to be exchanged

For any other item of the least

Bit of value



But who has ever traded

The miles they previously traveled

For the miles they hope to travel?



Your destination

Can never be bought, nor sold,

Nor traded

-And the soles of your shoes

Only tell half of the story

Of where you have traveled-



The other half

May be written, or not-

In the creaks of joints

And weariness of eyes



But isn't it worthwhile

To live in an ugly world

Than to never live at all?



"HA!"



Screamed the trillionaires

As their retirements

And bank trusts

Bite the dust



"Tell that to the weary souls

That hunt all night

For a loaf of bread

And single slice of meat."



"But I am one of them."



I answer.



"The wild dogs

And porcelaine birds

Know my name.

For I am everywhere-

Welcome both in your solitude

And in their exposed wilderness."



The trillionaires

Were not pacified

With this kind of reasoning-

As they set out

To plot gravesites

In which to bury their Trusts

Forever



And the birds that wrangled

Small fortune from manured lawns,

And the dogs that saw their wilderness

Of canyons shrink and disapear

Becoming miniscule ponds

And polluted lagoons

Where rotten fish heads

Could never seek out

The spirits of harvest again-



All still roamed, a little weary,

A little shallow, cracked but not broken-

Watching the walls that rested

On the foundations they had helped build

Sink a little lower into the mud-

That deep, rich plaque of earth

That is continually hungry

And eternally unforgiving.

New Short Story

Here is another short story I wrote a couple of weeks ago. I work on these for fun when I have nothing else on my mind to write. This is loosely based on the one time my father went hunting with my grandfather. Enjoy.



The Eager Boy Hunter, The Deer, And The Hunter Father



Shelly had only fired the rifle two or three times, but since he seemed good enough at it, his father James decided to take him out hunting for deer, even though the boy could barely carry the rifle any distance, and had failed at, and despised fishing so fervantly that the boy had sworn to never get on another boat again. James had never seen someone exhibit signs of seasickness on a boat in a lake, but the boy had the first time James had taken him out. James had chalked it up to the fumes from the boat's engine spitting up into the boy's face. When it came to hunting, James did not imagine Shelly would ever be able to shoot, and hit a deer with a rifle, but to save the boy some babying from his mother, James was taking Shelly on any and all kinds of hiking, camping, or hunting expeditions he could.



Shelly loved spending time with his father, and while his true interests lie in reading science fiction novels in his room at night, and sneaking out of his room after James and his mother was asleep to creep around their property trapping night crawlers and fireflies in jars, he seemed extremely eager to please his father; to the extent of going on this hunting expedition in the extreme wilderness with little food to get by on, miles and miles from any major road or town. Shelly had faith his father could get them back to safety, no matter how far of a distance James demanded on trekking in order to find legal size, prize prey.



Shelly had the fascination with his father, and belief with his father being an invincible force in the universe, much like other young, pre-teen children did. The illusion of his father being all strong and all good in every way dominated his psyche to the extent that he was willing to prove to his father he was going to someday be as good of a man, if not better, if he dared to, and had good fortune, as his father always had.



They were standing on a ridge, overlooking a deep, forrested valley, when James spotted the deer- a huge buck; maybe one of the biggest he had ever seen, with it's protruding crown of antlers extending about four feet over it's head.



James thought of his friend Bradley, then. Bradley had been an old hunting buddy of his that had occassionally come out with James and his hunting crew on their expeditions, but had never scored a deer, and very rarely ever shot his gun at all.



Bradley had been a nature lover more than a real hunter. He would go out into the forest by himself, sit by a tree with his rifle set beside him, and draw pictures of trees and birds. Usually, he would end up falling asleep with his pen and paper in his lap, and his rifle, admonishly useless, crooked against the same tree he was.



The only time Bradley had ever spotted a prize kill it had been one of the times he had fallen asleep while lying back upon a large pine tree. A noise nearby him had awoken him, and in waking, he had opened his eyes to see the largest, most beautiful deer he had ever seen in his life. Since he was supposed to be hunting, and not really drawing pictures, he reached for his rifle, but it only took one snap of a twig underneath his body when he moved for the deer to take flight, and disapear into the woods. Because Bradley was studied in nature and tracking, he was able to run down that prize deer in about three hours. He got a shot at it eventually, but missed, of course, because he was a horrible shot with a rifle.



James thought about his friend Bradley, and Bradley's terrible luck with hunting, as he pointed out the prize buck in the valley below the rock-rim ledge he and Shelly were standing on.



"Are you going to take a shot at it, dad?"



Shelly asked, exhuberantly. The boy had already taken the safety off his rifle, and had it in shooting position; butt pressed against the crook of his right shoulder, his left hand gingerly holding the shaft of the rifle.



James chuckled under his breath, and pointed down at the deer way down in the valley, so far away, it seemed an impossiblity the bullet would even reach it, much less hit it.



"You take a shot, boy." James said, still chuckling. "If you're able to wound it, we'll go down there and finish it off."



Shelly got excited about his first shot at a real, live deer, and jumped up to aim. In shooting practice, when James had taken him out, Shelly had learned to shoot laying down in the way the military taught soldiers to shoot guns for the first time.



Now, standing on the ledge above the valley, aiming at the prize buck, Shelly aimed while standing upright on his feet. But his grip on the rifle was perfect, the way James had taught him to hold it, and his aim appeared somewhat accurate, so James didn't stop him when he aimed so quickly, and took a shot that seemed impossible.



The deer must not have heard the sound of the rifle firing, for it didn't move at all until the bullet entered it's body. James raised his binoculaurs to his eyes when he realized Shelly had actually hit the buck with his first shot. The deer convulsed, snapping it's spine backward, and then toppled sideways onto the ground in a violent spasm.



"Holy, fucking shit!"



James exclaimed, excited at first. He couldn't believe the boy had hit that deer on the first shot, from a greater distance than he had ever seen anyone hit a live animal from.



But then he looked around at their surroundings. They were miles from base camp, in an area impossible to bring his truck into in order to carry out the deer's body. He peered down at it with his binoculaurs again, to make sure. The buck did not move an inch.



"I hit it, didn't I dad?" Shelly asked. "Do you think it's dead? Do you think I killed it?"



The boy looked frightened now, instead of excited, and happy. He had seen his father unhappy before, and feared slightly his father's temper. His father did not look happy when he answered Shelly's question.



"I think you did kill it, son. We better get down there, and find out."



James and Shelly hiked then, down around the cliff edge, into the valley, along a running stream to where the buck's body lay. The deer was dead; that much was certain. How to get it's remains from this far-off place to where James could properly remove the head, antlers, and meat was a problem James had not bargained on in letting Shelly take a pot shot at it.



James got out his carving knife, and got to the task of skinning and butchering the deer's carcass so they could carry it out of the valley.



Shelly became ill immediately watching his father cut up the fresh corpse of the deer like it was a giant shrub he was weeding and pruning into proper form. It was much like the time he had gotten sick from the fumes on his dad's fishing boat, only slightly worse because he had not eaten lunch yet, and his sickness was a constant dry heave.



James was cursing, and losing his temper in such a way that he was not properly butchering the deer. Blood was everywhere; on the ground, all over James' pants and arms and legs, and even flowing down the small creek the buck had been drinking from before Shelly's miracle shot had killed it.



"God! Fuck!" James yelled, discovering the bullet lodged within the deer's heart. That explained why the buck had died instantly.



"Fuckn'! Fuck! God! Fuck!"



Shelly continued to dry heave vommitt into the bushes. His gaze was transfixed on the creek, which had turned a scralet-blood red color; with occassional entrails of stomach, intestine, and other bits of flesh and organ he could not recognize.



"Why don't we just bury the body?" Shelly asked James, between heaves.



James spun around, his carving knife, hand, and entire forearm stained with blood and grissles of flesh.



"You killed this goddamm, fucking deer in some way I cannot comprehend, and we are going to do this the proper way! If we leave this dead, fucking shit out here there will be coyotes, and wolves, and verman out here fighting over it! Jesus! How the hell did you hit this fucking thing from way up there?"



Both Shelly and James gazed back up at the cliff line that Shelly had shot from; neither really believing in a realistic way that Shelly actually had nailed the deer right through the heart from a hill above a valley that they could barely see the top of while standing next to the deer's body.



"I'm sorry, dad," Shelly said, heaving his dry heaves again, and almost breaking into tears.



"Don't be sorry, goddammit!" James yelled. But then he quieted down, seeing the boy really was upset, and not just sick.



"You shouldn't be sorry, I mean. That was a great shot. One in a million, I'd guess. I've never hit anything from that distance. Especially, not something this big. This is a prize buck, son. We can sell this meat, and keep these antlers as to prove how big it was. But I'm not going to leave a big mess out here in the middle of no where for someone else to clean up. We gotta haul it out, somehow. And that's the problem. And that's why I'm mad. Not at you. Just at the situation. This damn buck must weigh about three, or four hundred pounds. We don't have enough gear to store it's hide, much less all the extra weight it's packin'."



Slowly but surely, James got the hide quartered, and then he hacked up the quarters into even smaller pieces. Within an hour he had all the deer's remains wrapped in plastic and packed up in his pack, and he had Shelly loaded up with all of their supplies. They had done their best to clean up most of the blood and entrails that were in the creek, and a long the rocks on the side of the creek. In the end, though James had done his best to clean the surrounding environment of any kill-sign, there was still a lot of mess on the ground when they began hiking out.



They made it most of the way back to camp before stopping to rest, and drink some water. Shelly was exhausted, and practically starving. James could tell his being sick, and the long walk with the extra gear was wearing the boy down. He stopped them to rest when he was sure they were within distance of reaching their base camp before sundown.



"You see how we did that otu there, son?" James asked, wanting to drive home the importance of what he thought the boy should learn from the experience.



"I've known men that will go on killing rampages while on hunting trips. They'll kill as many deer as they can, take the head, and antlers, and leave a big, gorey mess behind. It's not just typically illegal, son. It's just plain wrong. You don't come out to a place like this and start killing deer without being prepared to clean it the proper way, and leave whatever area you are in as clean, or cleaner than how you found it."



James continued, after a brief pause.



"That is the real hunter's way, son. That is how a real man conducts himself. In nature, in society; it doesn't matter where you are."



"I guess maybe, I might like fishing better, if I didn't get so sick."



James laughed then, and patted the boy on the back of his head.



"You'll probably like just camping out, and hiking around, instead. We've got two more days out here. And the hell if I'm going to go out and try to best this buck you shot. I might hike back out to that spot tomorrow, and try to figure out how the hell it was you hit this goddamm prize buck from on top of the moon."



Shelly snickered then, thinking he had finally impressed his father enough that maybe he didn't need to keep coming out on these wilderness adventures. Camping and hiking seemed alright to him. Shooting the rifle was fun, too. But he hoped he never had to kill something as large as that deer again. That had been just too much blood and guts for him. He would have never fired his rifle had he known he was going to kill it. Although, at the time when he aimed, it had seemed like an easy shot. Even from way up on the hill the deer had been so big it seemed like an easy target. Maybe, he thought to himself, he had taught his father a hunting lesson, instead of his father teaching him one. He knew he was a good shot after only being at the shooting range a couple of times. His father knew now, too. So Shelly felt like he never had to fire at a live animal ever again, if he didn't want to.

ALS Walk Needs Support

I had a relative die of this disease and would love to help out any way I could, but I am working that day. Anyone who reads this blog; if you have time or energy to offer support, I would personally appreciate it, or could you at least pass on the information to someone who may have time to help. Thanks.



SAN DIEGO – The ALS Association is looking for walkers for a cause.



AdvertisementThe San Diego chapter of the association will host its seventh annual “Walk to Defeat ALS” at Mission Bay Park's De Anza Cove on Sunday. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, is a fatal degenerative disease of the nerve cells that control muscular movement and is commonly called Lou Gehrig's disease.



More than 150 families in the county have a family member who is living with the disease.
The fundraiser usually attracts more than 100 walking teams and 1,600 walkers. Registration begins at 7:30 a.m. for the 3.1-mile course along Mission Bay.



For additional information to start or join a team, go to alsasd.org or call the chapter at (858) 271-5547.

Short Story just for fun

I don't normally publish short stories on this blog, but I am today, just for fun. Enjoy!





The Thick-Skulled Hog, And The Thick-Skulled Man



Archie, brother Al, and uncle Joe sat out on the back porch after dinner, swatting away mosquitoes, and taking long drags off the quart of wine they passed back and forth to one another. It was getting near the end of summer, and the California air was warm enough to sit out at night, but still had a little frost and chill to it to make it seem a little cold.

“If we was back in Mississippi right now, Al,” Joe asked, “do you think it would be warmer, or colder sitting out on a porch this late at night?”

Al and Joe had come in from Mississippi on the bus a few weeks back looking for work. They had found enough of it to pay for their own food, and wine, but hadn’t yet saved enough money to travel on anyplace else. They were temporarily stuck here in California with Archie, his wife, and their three children.

“It would be humid as a whore’s cunt, I bet. And with a helluva’ lot more mosquitoes than we got out here.”

Al answered Joe’s question, while sipping back on the jug of wine. The backyard of Archie’s house was littered with old clotheslines, and clothespins. There was a chicken coop off in the far corner, with several hens, and one big, mean, brown rooster. The children’s toys were scattered about in the dirt, and Archie’s carpentry tools lay about the yard, as well. All of this was in a backyard enclosure no more than six by eight feet.

“You should build yourself a tool shed, Archie.”

Al suggested, letting that cool, foggy wine buzz sink over him.

“As soon as I do, Ma will have me packin’ up to leave somewhere else.” Archie answered. “She does that to me every time. If we get settled in too comfortable, she’ll want to leave. Same old story.”

Archie’s wife, whose real name was Blythe, but they all called “Ma” because that was what her kids called her, came out on the porch then, and began sweeping the dust off it right out from underneath the three men’s feet. All three of them did their best to stay out of her way. It was obvious that within the marriage between her and Archie, even though she did all the cooking, and cleaning, and took care of the children twenty-four hours a day, that she was the one who was in charge of the household. A few years back, when Archie had been doing more drinking than working, she had left him to live with relatives in Tennessee. Though Archie was a drunk, a gambler, and basically a scoundrel at heart, he did love her and his children enough to clean up his act somewhat, and lure her back.

When she was done sweeping, she pointed the broom handle at the lazy hog laying over against the fence, at the edge of the yard. The hog was always a contentious issue between her and Archie. Ma claimed the hog took up too much room in the little backyard, while Archie favored it, for he had plans to breed it someday; if he could ever find anyone in the area with a sow that would take a liking to it.

“Will you kill that old hog, finally? He’s as lazy as you are, and stinks twice as bad. We could almost get a milk cow back here, if that dumb hog wasn’t in the way.”

“Well, that’s an exaggeration,” Archie replied. “It would have to be a teeny-tiny cow you buy, to fit in this little speck of a yard we have.”

“I’m sick of it!” Blythe snapped, causing Archie, his brother, and his uncle to all rise out their seats uncomfortably.

“Even though you boys been workin’, and bringin’ home money, we’re low on food. That hog could probably feed all of us, and the kids, for about two weeks.”

Al licked his lips, looking down at the hog’s rump.

“I’ll bet that pig is as tender as a slice of veal. What, him layin’ here in that little patch of dirt for how long?”

“We could a make a sport out of it,” Joe suggested. “See that sledge over there?”

Joe pointed to the fence on the other side of the chicken coop from where the hog lay. Archie’s big sledgehammer, that he mainly used to bust up old boards with, rested against the fence with weeds growing up around it’s steel head.

“You ain’t gonna’ kill no hog with a big hammer.”

Al chirped in, understanding exactly what was on uncle Joe’s mind.

“I’ll bet you five bucks, I could, Al. And if I can’t, I’ll lay down ten that Archie could do it. He’s a hair stronger than you or I, I figure.”

“The hell, he is,” Al said in retort, rising to grab the sledge off the fence. He tapped the hammer side off on a rock to get the dirt and weeds off of it. Then, he and Joe coaxed the hog over into the middle of the yard, and had it lie down so they had full arching, swinging room to knock it’s head off.

“Which of you wussies is gonna’ hit it first?”

Archie asked, after they all threw five dollars into a bucket.

“I’ll take a whack,” Joe said, picking up the sledge. “I can barely lift this hammer, I swear. Hopefully, Al can finish it off, if I can’t.”

Archie and Al held their breaths together as Joe threw the hammer back over his shoulder, raised it up behind his head, and then brought it down square onto the hog’s forehead.

POOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!

The hammer made a terrific sound against the plate of the hog’s skull. It’s entire body convulsed under the blow, and a cloud of dust rose up from beneath it.

“Hoooooooollllllllyyyyyyy Crap!” Al yelled, stepping close. “Did you see that? It’s head just bounced off the ground like a basketball.”

“Sorry, Al,” Joe answered him. “It ain’t dead. I can see it still breathing.”

Archie had come up behind Joe also, to confirm the hog was still alive. When Al took the sledge from Joe, in his eagerness to prove he could finish the hog off, he threw the hammer back too quickly, and nailed Archie on the forehead with it. The result was a flat plank! sound of the sledge hitting Archie, and then another POOOOOOOMMMM!! sound as the head of the hammer drove the head of the hog once more down into the dirt.

“What the hell was that?” Al yelled, spinning around to try to figure out what had broken his arch-swing.

“You just hit your brother on the head with that sledgehammer, fool.”

Joe and Al walked over to Archie, and steadied him. His eyes were blurry, but he could still walk.

“Set me down, and have Ma bring me the whiskey!”

Archie demanded, slapping their arms off of him. They both did what he said, and within a few minutes of sipping on whiskey, Archie looked fine and good, except for a big, bruised knot forming in the center of his forehead.

“Hell, Archie,” Al joked, upon seeing Archie was not seriously hurt. “I can’t tell which has the thicker skull. You, or that damn hog.”

They could see the hog was still alive, and breathing, even after being hit hard with the sledge twice. Archie took up the hammer then, and went to have his turn.

He brought the sledge up, and then down upon the hog’s skull so powerfully, the sound it made was like a skillet slamming down upon a metal grill.

The hog wheezed, barely moving, but they could all see it was still alive. Ma came out then, angry about the noise, and the fact that Archie had drank half the whiskey after already finishing a jug of wine.

“You three grown men couldn’t put on old hog down?” She asked, spitting into the yard where the half-beat animal lay. “I guess I’ll have to take care of this myself.”

She went back into the house, and brought out a long, sharp butcher knife. She kneeled down next to the hog, gingerly grasping his head with her left hand, and with her right hand, in one smooth stroke upward; she buried the blade into the hog’s throat, pulled the blade out quickly, and then stepped back out of the way as blood spilled out of the now dying hog like a fully running faucet.

“Ah, woman,” Al said, disappointingly. “You ruined our game. Who wins the bet now?”

“All bets are off,” Ma said, with one hand grabbing the bucket of money, and the other hand roughly grabbing Archie by the collar, and forcing him to go inside with her. “I’m gonna’ take this fifteen bucks tomorrow, and buy more whiskey, and take my husband to the doctor. You coulda’ permanently brained him with that hammer.”

Al and Joe grumbled complaints about the money, but there was no real arguing with Blythe when she was angry. They moved the hog’s body after it had bled out, into a shady area so it would be out of the way.

Blythe took Archie back and threw him onto the bed. He had been stumbling, and slurring his speech, but she figured it was more due to the alcohol, than the whack on the head. She took his boots off for him, and threw an old quilt over him. Then, she got right down and kissed him on his forehead, where he was bruised and swollen from the sledgehammer.

“You’re just an old thick-skulled hog, yourself. Huh, old man?”

She asked him, but he was sound asleep, about as dead to the world as the night itself. Ma sat with him for a minute or two, making sure he was sleeping well, and then went to make sure all the commotion had not awoken the children, and those two lazy relatives of Archie had moved the hog’s body somewhere she could easily butcher it, and begin preparing a feast for the next day’s dinner.

Bonfires on Earth to Warm the Heavens

Two devils sat in Mass

Both more frightened of the judgement

From each other

Than of God, or Christ, or any Holy Spirit



The collectors brought around the donation trays

And the Devils bid each other lower-

Daring each other to donate the least amount of money to

A God of vengeance that lacked a sense of humor



It was the weaker one

That put in a whole coin

Of a particular denomination



The stronger Devil

The one without any real fear

Dropped a shred of lint from his pocket

Into the plate



God was not amused-

God grew full of vengeance-

But God was always full of vengeance

And these two Devils did not fear him

The way a God expected to be feared



The Saints all cried out from the rafter beams

The Angels all cried out from the pews

The Martyrs wailed and wailed

From the stone mason floor

The Bibles spoke one thousand tongues

Even God could not comprehend



But their cries and their wails

And all their speeches in every tongue

Could not withhold the judgement of Devils-



The judgement, as it rests, declares

This church and this God are not worth fearing

Even in the recourse of not having proper funds

We shall rest now at the end of our time

Forsaking the next generation any life

Better than our own



The only happy people in church that day

Were the alter-boys, who ran outside into

The cool air, the green grass, yelling and chirping

Amongst themselves, "We are not scared of God,

And we are not scared of Nuns, and we are certainly

Not scared of Preachers.



The question became then-

To bathe in the air and grass

As innocent children, or to start a fire

And warm by it; the way good Devils should?



The fire was easier, because none of them could fly

And only half of them could swim



God was vengeful and did lack a sense of humor

But God also enjoyed the heat of an untamed flame-



For without Devils the universe was cold and lonely

And obtuse, and sullen



And it was fun for God

To see women and unschooled spirits

Flock around the fire- The way they always had

Since the first question of doubt had formed

About chains, pedestals, and the usefulness

Of good without the existence of evil.

Two Poems for Sunday Evening

I have published both of these poems on Myspace, a long time ago. I just found them in this little notebook I carry around sometimes. I hope you enjoy them.



1. Titled (But Not Named)



Saw a vision in the clouds

The day the tides turned red

And waves vomited a molten blue



It was Buddha as an embryo

Waving his hands from the sky

Willing the world to awake



Ducks and ferral cats roamed peacefully

In ponds and forages

That humans had denied one another



The Garden had been sequestered

The wolves raged with cobalt eyes

The billionaires took all the pennies

Out of the wishing well and churned

Them out of fire into worthless stone



She and I gazed at each other

From a mirrors length of one another

Her glass eyes reflected my advancements

While my empty heart resisted pressing temptation



The Monarchs do not fly anymore

Birds nest without mating

A treasure once unforeseen

Nods it's head and winks it's eye

With the fog encrusted morning

Imported branches

Rooting into irrigated soil



There is no water here

The pigeons dare the moths

To molt and fly higher than bridges



But the giant moth

In all of it's bizarre glory

Swims into light that cannot feed it



And that was what swam out of her eye

When she looked at me and the

Glass began to melt



We awoke with each other

With no use for anyone to take care of us



We borrowed the sun's warmth

And repaid the new generation

With just enough shadow to sleep

A little longer in pleasant dream



2. Behind The First Wall Is Another Easier To Climb



And the rain cried out

In a single, signifying chime

"You can see across the world.
You are outside of the wall."



Within the boundaries

Of a stifled nation

The war cry chimed in unison

"We must follow the warriors to be free.

Violent protest the only thing they notice."



Their leader was chained

Behind flash bulbs

And misconceptions

"The blood you pour onto the streets

Does not bear well for our fruition."



With everything recorded

But set into a changeable pattern

The masks were removed from those that hid

And a secret place inside the mind

Opened- revealing our emptiness to an unkown universe



The world of politics is ripe

And pregnant with the need for newness

Fradulent elections contested

Arms of oppressors cut red tape

The quite idea, one not yet

Wholly formed, is what the

Populace seeks it's leader to speak out



A glass enclosure traps

An army of able bodied work men and women

They cannot swing their hammers

They cannot operate their drills



Their signals and signage

Point in confusing directions

Their silver is a worthless coin

Thrown into a bucket unable to be filled



The water layers the cement

The dry brush encrusts the green acreage
It is difficult for us

To lend a hand to others

While our hands dig

Unmercifully for things they cannot grasp a hold of



A pleasant moment is ruined

By a single sound heard across

The entire width of consciousness



It is discontent

It is discontent



Too many followers

Searching out unmarked trails.