Thoughts at the end of a beachy day

Exiting the bus I arrive at the beach on the one day I knew nobody would be there.

It was a cold esoteric day with grey crumbly sky harkened to a wrinkled shirts many valleys.

It was also the middle of winter

After Christmas

After New Years,

And before valentines day.

I came to this desolate wasteland of plastic and grit, for a moment alone to contemplate a planet full of shit.

And maybe for a smoke,

The view,

The smell of dead fish,

It was a smell gross, like your favorite diner had lost power and all the fish had gone bad then they refroze them anyway.

The wind blew slowly and heavily that day, like a Birthday when the recipient is to old and has run out of breath but keeps trying to extinguish the last candles brightly burning flame.

So my thoughts now compound:

Why can’t we make this world better?

Just a standard of living?

Or at least less marketing!

I mean the marketing has moved from you will be the best if you had this product to, if you don’t buy this crap now you will be tortured with guilt, the person you hate the most will be elected and you will pull your toe nails out just to forget they are out of stock of the item you should of bought. The retched way we are treated by society is worse than any filth covered, disease ridden pig who was led to slaughter. At least after the pig was dead it was cooked delicately and smothered with butter.

And garnished

With parsley,

And a flower.

I didn’t want to give up on the planet, but I knew it would get better if we left it alone for even just an hour. The oceans would stir just a little more. Our cavalcade of plastic and poop would pause, giving it a much needed breather.

If you don’t understand what I mean take a trip down to your city dump and find the tallest mountain of trash and jump in it.

Try to breathe,

Try to see the sky,

Look at the ocean coming up to your thigh,

And ocean made from purely discarded waste. Coffee grounds, mud and spit back juice bottles and those are just the nicest ones I can mention.

It wasn’t that I had given up on people just that I knew their flaw, they practiced greed, narcissism, and gluttony in place of compassion, community and charity.

But genocide wasn’t needed because It was only one percent that kept this crazy system in place.

But you can’t beat them,

Because you’ll become them,

And nothing will change in the end.

The rain finally started it was light but numerous. Have you ever seen the rain hit the ocean? It has this insignificant feel, like a needle in a haystack. The ocean is a puddle so big it wouldn’t even flinch swallowing me. But that was what this thought was about: how to get a bunch of apathetic barely being able to survive people to participate in over throwing their only form of safety. Even if that was living under a bridge.

Eating from the trash,

A hole in your shoe,

Begging for change.

The masses would cling to anything that threw them a cent. Even though money is meaningless.

You can grow your food,

You can build your house.

But the sun has set and the answers have not come. Is this why people resort to the wrong answer or stick with the status quo? Wouldn’t it be easier just to keep working at it and admit you don’t have the right answer yet. Instead of enacting one the causes pain for some? Hopefully tomorrow will bring clarity. I may sleep on the beach, maybe I will get swept away to a island where people have a caring community.

The Stream and the Serene

Lives are always branching,

Moving out,

Moving towards,

Growing edge,

Growing more,

Each branch dangles in sunrise, serene, sedate, and soft. Comforting and accepting, With each note of fresh air,

Opening up to valley and stream that passes by there.

With the bark of the rising sun,

With hearts warmed by the air,

A breeze that opens eyes,

With acceptance crisp and fair,

The morning dew lightly coats you,

As your eyes begin to open.

First cup of coffee,

The air after it rains,

Linens washed in a stream,

The feel of the sun as it gleams,

Everything is quiet now. Your breath flows steady from your heart. Your thoughts slow. The sun begins to glow.

The animals wake,

The birds chirp,

The owls sing their sleep,

As the stream continues to leak,

Rocks shaped ever so smoothly by the flow. Meandering as it goes, across a divide, with a listless stride. Hugging all the land, without taking a stand. Changing is its nature. Comfort is its favor.

Be like the stream,

Be serene,

Hug all you see,

Let them be.

Why Dirt Matters

Dust.

The floating particles of annoyance that keep you cleaning a shelf of things you never use. Like picture frames and books all used to consume, memories and lies about when you will start reading it. It’s covered again I must get to cleaning it.

Dirt.

The ground that we walk on the place from which grass grows the place where we are buried, the molten rock from which we are formed. The last solidarity tree sitting silently surrounded by concrete crying for anyone to water it. But instead it sucks sewage from a runoff.

Rocks.

The pond skippers skipping utensil of choice. The Hong they used to build buildings tall by choice. Waiting to be crumbled into the dirt beneath our feet. They are just the hardened uncles of friend dirts monogamous choice.

You see this is Piece I impart to all of you, that the entropy of our life wears on us through time, and if it doesn’t take our mind, our body will fall apart in time. But this is. It such a bad thing, as it is meant to be. First our body is lowered in casket so expensive we could of never afforded it on our below minimum wage job. Then we are pack tightly with our brother dirt. Lying helpless unable to pay rent. So our tomb degraded as payment for rent long overdue. And the decomposition makes us unrecognizable to people that knew you. Then the worms take us apart bit by bit. Decomposition is ghastly I have heard that shit. But this becomes a nutrient rich soil. That goes through many phases, for some it’s oil. Then the planet explodes and the particles scattered. Where they go is not what matters. Because everyone of us is star dust you see and at one point we were dirt and worked cooperatively. Then we where thick’s as thieves, closer than closer, brother of brother as rocks.

And that’s the lesson here. Don’t look at anyone like a stranger, don’t put anyone in danger, because we are cut from the same cloth, even that cray uncle on the hilltop.

Maintaining Hope with a Wet Sock

Black oil swampy snow shoes,

Surround my drenched murky sock,

The depth of the puddle reveals

The depth of my depression and shock,

Almost getting run over,

By a post apocalyptic caravan minivan

Carrying its payload of tar to destroy the air and propel its greed.

Today nothing protects me from the world out side,

Not my sunny view or breathing and finding my center.

It’s as if the astral condom of my life has broken,

Letting the disgust, dread, and disappointment in.

My fragile world view cracking,

creating shards filled with unicorns and roses,

That fall to the ground shattering,

To reveal the misanthropes, murders,

And muggers of life.

This is what it is like,

A cold blue day in the steel city of pain,

Where the sun doesn’t shine,

And the depression is not just mine.

I have to fight the burdens,

As some jive turkey vomits on the quilt of our imaginary border,

Soaking his audience in spit that they anoint with the magic of their fatherly figure,

All Hope seems lost,

In this city who’s air is so thick that your lungs breathe out brown water,

I rush to cover my mouth with the two shirts of gold,

A commodity no one in this town owns,

Is this the last cent I have?

People say “you work full time why are you mad?”

I can only think that I have to stretch this bootlick salty ramen into two meals,

And hope my health remains,

So I can afford another after my payday.

But I am not just a person who sees wrong,

Long ago I came up with the solution to this swan song,

Compassion, charity and generosity,

Are all that are needed,

Like the wisdom of tribes, of neighborhoods, and families.

The ones we wiped out, that still exist,

even though we have a sense of finality about them.

I continue the next eighteen miles,

To hear one song,

With a soaked sock,

Rain covering my frock,

And a hope that it will be optimistic,

So I don’t have to go ballistic,

Over my cup of water,

At a venue with no cover charge.

Mediations on a Man at a Bus Stop

The concerto of a broken man,

As the flick of ash falls to the ground,

His hollowed eyed stare,

Can be heard from miles around,

Rehashing old thoughts,

He sits in his trench coat and frock,

Both wrinkled and worn,

As if he never throws anything away until it’s torn,

It’s day like any other in Pittsburgh,

Dark overcast clouds and thunder can be heard,

Rain dropping lightly as if created from the humidity,

And a stickiness that seems as if it wants to last into perpetuity,

None of this bothers him,

Not the buses that pass, with their loud growling engines,

Or the pedestrians pedating like hamsters on wheel,

His gazed is locked on nothing and cold as steel,

Hopefully he is thinking about something important,

Like how to solve world hunger in a way that would be concordant,

Or maybe it is simple like, did that steak I ate have red number 9 in it?

The cigarette burned lower in his hand now,

Almost to his knuckles the tip came, would he let out a ow?

It started crisping his skin,

Like cooking chicken with gin,

But his gaze continued,

Like he was trying to bore a hole with his eyes he ensued,

There had to be a reason for this scowl,

I had to ask with a howl,

But the fear set in,

As my heart beat became thin,

What would happen?

Could it be he is just kinda napping?

His aura was large and mean,

Would he turn into a monster hulking and green,

Just then his bus pulled up,

And he was gone with his thought.