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.