Somewhere Along the Way

(4 pm. – promoted by ek hornbeck)

He’s fifty, he lost his job three years ago, he won’t ever have a job again because American companies don’t hire the long-term unemployed parasites.  He wakes up Sunday mornings now, with no way to hold his head that doesn’t hurt.  And the beer he has for breakfast isn’t bad, so he has one more for dessert.  Then he fumbles through his closet for his clothes, and finds his cleanest dirty shirt, and stumbles down the stairs to meet the day.

Meet the day, parasite.  Welcome to the Brave New World of the Wall Street Gods, welcome to the Shock Doctrine Century, welcome to hunger games and drones in the sky and batshit ten feet deep in the halls of Congress.  Get ready to dodge bullets when you walk out the door, the NRA has turned America into a free fire zone, remember to salute the Job Creators and the police, bring three forms of photo ID if you’re going to cross the street.  Bring some courage along if you have any left, but leave your dignity behind, you won’t need it out here, hardly anyone in this shit storm that used to be America even remembers what it is anymore.

He’d smoked his mind the night before, on cigarettes and songs he’d been picking.  But he lit his first and watched a small kid, cussing at a can that he was kicking.  Kicking a can down the road, just like the Big Boys of the Beltway, kicking the broken economy can down the road, kicking the global warming can down the road, kicking the Wall Street reform can down the road,  kicking every can in sight down the road, and then kicking them further down the road.

If we make it to November, a hundred million Americans will vote for their favorite can kickers.  I don’t know why they still do that, anthropologists have theorized that it’s some sort of bizarre tribal ritual, like waiting for the sun to come up over Stonehenge.

I saw the old parasite once, he crossed an empty street, and caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken, he saw a daddy in a park, with a laughing little girl who he was swinging, he stopped beside a Sunday school, and listened to the song they were singing.  And it took him back to something, something that we’ve lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

We lost some of it on a motorcade through Dallas . . .

We lost more of it in Vietnam . . .

30 Mar 1966, Vietnam --- An US Army medic tries to help a wounded soldier in Vietnam. --- Image by © Bettmann/CORBIS

We lost the rest of it in two Reagan landslides, in wars for oil, in Wall Street crime rampages that never end, in tidal waves of corruption that swept everything away except a few progressive websites, where the cold winds of corporate power blow through us like we’re not even there.  

I’ve been around awhile, I’ve wandered the cyber streets with the jobless and the homeless, with the prophets and the poets of the ragged resistance, we write something on a wall here, and something on a wall there, hoping it’ll be read, knowing it will be read, because we’re not the only ones who remember what America has lost, we’re not the only ones who can still hear, somewhere far away, the lonely bell of justice ringing, echoing through the canyons of the past, like a disappearing dream of yesterday.

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  1. “it will be read, because we’re not the only ones who remember what America has lost, we’re not the only ones who can still hear, somewhere far away, the lonely bell of justice ringing, echoing through the canyons of the past, like a disappearing dream of yesterday.”

    We can only hope, Rusty!  But we must each do as much as we can do to counter that which has been lost!

    Thank you, Rusty!

  2. a luminous

    world awaits

    a dawn

    when darkness

    is illuminated.

    when ignorance

    is educated.

    when hate

    becomes love.

    awakening minds when all is One,

    something to be dreamed of

    everyone, everywhere is One.

    a glowing

    reality breathes

    a thought,

    sentient heartbeats.

    soaring upward – we see the whole,

    knowledge informs.

    diving inward – we touch the soul,

    light-spirit transforms.  

    become love… without end… be love… be love…

    awakened consciousness when all is One,

    something to be dreamed of

    everyone, everywhere is One.

    across the universe,

    suns are born,

    stars explode,

    light-gods that give everything,

    lighting the darkness, awaking the void.

    consciousness kisses the lips of creation.

    the sun is so beautiful.

    • banger on August 9, 2012 at 11:06 pm

    I thought I’d add something:

    Carepe Diem

    Ask not-we cannot know-what end the gods have set for you, for me; nor attempt the Babylonian reckonings Leuconoë. How much better to endure whatever comes, whether Jupiter grants us additional winters or whether this is our last, which now wears out the Tuscan Sea upon the barrier of the cliffs! Be wise, strain the wine; and since life is brief, prune back far-reaching hopes! Even while we speak, envious time has passed: pluck the day, putting as little trust as possible in tomorrow!

    Horace

    • Rusty1776 on August 11, 2012 at 12:00 am
      Author

    Please sign it.

    http://www.change.org/petition

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