Po
Boy Views
By
Phil
LaMancusa
Woke
Or
Imagine
That
The difference between then and now; the difference between
the haves and the had nots of yesterday and today; the repurposing of the real
and of real estate. The entirety of the mad dash clash of past, present, future
and the ones who move up and the ones that fall down. “They are the same people only further from home, on a freeway fifty
lanes wide on a concrete continent spaced with bland billboards illustrating
imbecile illusions of happiness” (Ferlinghetti).
I’ve changed over the years of my lives, escaping from
the projects and parents, side stepping prospects of prisons and poisons pursuing
a profession and being always on the cusp of the finer positive points of prosperity;
relying on personal progress for peace/a piece of my mind that is being
continually blown by me the hungry gatherer constantly overtaken by the successful
hunters.
Folks my age, our experiences lost in the space of time
and the lessons and larks that lead us from relative comfort to an eventual
downsizing ‘retirement home’ abandonment with one foot in assisted living and
the other avoiding the slippery slope of a six foot hole all the while hoping
that the next one to go is not another one that we love or worse, us ourselves.
You didn’t know me when I was a younger man and I won’t know you as an old
person. So it goes.
Million dollar condos and high priced essentials; shaving
with a brush and a bar of soap while my taxes line the pockets of manic
mansplainers telling me how good they have made life for me and mine; property values
continue to become fatter and my pockets leaner; my spirit contentiously
swimming against the undertow of historic mendacity concerning the salvation of
my eternal soul, as if the promise of heaven will fill the bellies of hungry
children while the rich donate to rebuild cathedrals dedicated to a carpenter’s
son who died for their sins. The picture of the ragged man sitting on his milk
crate at the intersection; his sign reading “Anything Helps, God Bless”.
The rent for one month of an apartment two blocks from
where I grew up would have paid our living expenses for almost five years and
that would have been for a family of six. Where does the time go and where does
that kind of money come from?
The great recession of 2018 is coming to bite us in the
behind as the bubble is busting while our credit cards get maxed out trying to
rob Peter to pay Paul and finding out that Peter has been financially kicked to
the curb; even the low spark of high heeled boys cannot escape the percentage
we’re paying while we’re living beyond all our means because the man in the
suit has just bought himself a golf course with the profits he’s made on our
fears and our dreams. The sound in the distance is not a dog barking but the
laughter of Anubis taking our coins for our ride with Charon.
It matters not because we’re witnessing islands of
plastic debris as mega companies use solar power to make frakking less
expensive. They rape and we must pull up our pants and stumble on being the
last generation to walk freely on this planet; the impotence of our good
intentions paving the road to hell.
I have a neighbor who walks to the bus stop once a week
to go to Walmart; he rests on the stoop next door to us and happily explains
how he’s looking forward to celebrating his ninety-fifth birthday. May we all
be so fortunate; from our mouths to God’s ears; walking to the bus ride to
Walmart amid the chaos confusion and detritus of a collapsed planet; walking to
the bus ride to Walmart.
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