In the old days.. was that just yesterday?

The story, as told to me, the depression in america created a social class of homeless families. The lines to get a little food were nearby in each city, if you were early enough. People were squating in whatever type of shelter imaginable from the cold, rain or suffering heat.
Recalling the time of speaking to a old man whose weathered skin told his story of living in low desert country. Struggling for a plate of pinto beans and picking vegatables in the Imperial Valley. The times of thirst an hunger were burned into his memory, however his willingness to talk about it  brought about a little smile.
He spoke of traveling north from Mexiacali past Calexico into areas north an east of Brawley an Niland all south of the Salton Sea.
Nothing has changed in those areas today or tomorrow. The small no name towns inbetween the groves of date palms an citrus trees invite day labor.
Nileland popped up as a mecca of homeless wanderers. Drawn to a old marine corp base that has slabs of concrete being the only visable history. No water, no electricity. The film “Into The Wild” exposed the secret of the “Slabs” Jesus Mountion an the man who created it brought an still brings wanderers, hitchhikers an the ocassional indie film makers. I miss the place.
I miss sleeping under the stars at night. The cool air crawls along the surface of the ground wrapping around you like a swim in a cool swimming pool.
As the sun rises the birds speak to anyone who will listen. Their voices wake up a part of your being. A realization of the freedom to live an continue on.

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Keeping it simple … is that possible?

In this one bedroom apartment I’ve tried to keep exactally as one of my campsites.
The kitchen is clean with only a few main items visable. Frying pan, 1 small pot, and a 6 quart pot with lid. One place setting consisting of a donated plate, coffee cup, fork an two spoons. I bought a 9$ coffee pot. Got to have my coffee an roll your own cigarettes.
Bathroom setup is combination blood pressure reading room, a spot to wash my laundry in the tub and me staying clean.
The living room has my two person walmart osark trails tent setup. Sleep is difficult. Staying focused on one task is a daunting dance, relearned each day. Writing is my outlet, my way of talking to others without loosing track. My jumping from a fleeting moment of hard learned experience to share with others to moments of total loss of train of thought an forgetting the words. Like me getting my foot stuck in the mud. Maybe, just maybe …that could explain my constant urge to hitchhike. The moments of simplicity in natures grasp is calming an yet unpredictable. The beauty of life without words.

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Waiting for the thief of time ….

I haven’t been able to catch the

What color was the flower you first saw this morning

little fucker, that soma of bitch who stole the past 60 years. We all sit and watch the times of our life tick so slowly by. Vowing to toss away the wrist watch worn since early adulthood. That same instrument that drives people towards madness to be ontime, beseeking any other happiness to complete the assigned task, for  money to provide shelter an food

I sit here in this one bedroom apartment going over an over the bits and pieces of what I remember of those years, what a chore that is. cry me a fuckn river start playing the violin, give  me some cheese with that gallo wine

I’m a dreamer, a daytime an a night time hitchhiker. I’m thinking of the next roadtrip while on the current one. Why the hell not.
Tell me you haven’t wanted to just get up an leave everything, just go anywhere to enjoy the moments of your time on this here earth.

Times are hard all around me, from the early morning coke can collectors carefully sifting through the dumpster. Wearing garbage stained clothing, they can’t be mistaken for any other person.Slowly putting each can on the ground to allow crushing it smaller allowing more cans in the plastic bags piled high in a grocery cart.
The young couples, with or without little children not having enough money to carry them through just half of the month. They plan and hope for the future to be better but are still stuck in the struggle.

The old man who sits looking out the apartment doorway
trying to get comfortable in a old wheelchair, cigarette smoldering in between nicotine stained fingers. having that distant stare of decades of memories, hope has burned out and no one is there to hear the crying.
The young men an women walking through the alleys an main streets looking for a 40 and tiny bag of tabacco snipes to roll, both for hiding the hunger an the pain of loneley days an nights.
A older man sitting on the sun baked bench of the public smoking zone of the transportation hub of town, he knows most of people of the streets, he sleeps under the railroad tressel where the ditch travels under the railroad tracks. He says he isn’t alone there are five or six others doing the same. he has been there a few years an admits he has lost that feeling of hope for something better.

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