Thursday, October 15, 2009

Something beyond Economics.

0725/1900 82/88 Blue Skies SSE/5 75%H.
DOGS 994 7490 1051 1751.

Greetings from the Hill.

A good day for an adventure,
gardens watered, cats fed,
time to visit the outside world
away from the home arrest,
the selfimposed observer.

A month of creative gardening
changing dereliction to beauty,
"I do 'it' because I enjoy 'it',"
laughing and smiling,
an attitude forgotten
in a culture of greed,
a nation obsessed with billing,
overcharging incompetence,
served with an insult.

The fellow possessed an overview
that allowed him to see as an artist,
not anothers' design or plan,
simply the thing itself
unfolding on 'its' own,
without some asshole
imposing will.

A photographer who takes
the perfect shot because
he thought with patience
and a gentle kindly sense,
not dollars and cents.

A quiet morning street but for
"Those fucking roosters talk
to each other, nasty birds
that only interrupt to mock,
reminds me of certain people,"
grumbles the oldman gazing
down the street at the dead lady's
empty house, keeping sorrow
private and never discussed,
a walk in the garden
to test the legs.

The street was oddly active,
dirtbags up early scrounging
off the cruiseship walkers,
gawking in Tshirt shops,
the oddest collection of tourists
for a 'Five Star Destination'.

"Not Fat Mac's dream no more."

Passing the Green Parrot bar,
the oldman barred for life,
just as well...

"Hey, Jack, don't slow down now,
we got another mile to go before
we shoot the cannon, Hoho,"
concerned about the
wobbly legs,
the faint heart,
and dizziness.

"Where did this water come from,"
resting in the cool of the brick,
a few decades since the last visit,
wondering if this would be
the final.

This was Tony's part of paradise,
facing Matamoros to the west,
fifteen hundred miles
of water...
the same to New Orleans.

"Well, its a lot closer to Havana,"
laughing in the sand...
"Key West is a beeetch,"
mocking some song or slogan.

The oldman had made the voyage,
his last breath beneath
the palms and pines
hands in the sand
soul in paradise.

"Hey, Mad are you,
I heard you was dead...
have a cold beer, man,"
a voice from the past.

Inside the Reef,

Above the Horn.

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