America, as frightening as ever for poor

BEING POOR IN AMERICA IS AS FRIGHTENING AS EVER

Increasing numbers of people face poverty along with the new year as growing concerns that corporate groups will have to pay living costs for workers, including health care. 

Health care was the top complaint of corporations, before Obama Care (something President Obama is willing to take credit for).    That got overshadowed by escalating poverty, homelessness, and police committing violent acts against the people they swore to protect.  Murder is murder, no matter who does it.  Mimicking people, calling them "creep", head slamming on concrete, kicking, choking, threatening, should not be on the description of police work. 

But it is apparent these things happen.  You cannot deny a video.  Police now ordered to wear video cameras are turning them off.  But that doesn't stop others from recording unfolding history.  Now they want to make recording truth, a crime; maybe punishable by death.

That kind of, Homeland Security attitude only escalates tensions and fears.  The war on drugs has always been trumped by booze -- that's according to, Bill O'Reilly.  He said three branches of legislature are: Booze, bribes, and banking.  No shit -- Bill! (layman words).  Bill tells it pretty straight, with his own spin, one-hundred eighty degrees from most.  He can afford entertainment he says, and he's made a career of it.  Actually had breakfast with him.  He is personable, and affable.  Polite.  You can't say better.

We're both calling for smaller government, even as there is war going on, all around us.  In a way they say, it's scary.  But more people worry about the next meal and times span between jobs and ninety day firings.

Statistics are each slanted; they tell you that.  Most people know that.  Smart people flunked those courses.  Cunning people use those figures to bloviate.  It does nothing to solve anything.

You cannot hide a seismic earthquake, because everybody feels it.  Poverty is number one problem, across Terra Firma and beyond.  They say Hell is paved with diamonds, as the planet core is that solid structure, molting and raining down sparkling riches.  I never had one.  Interesting.  The same people who crave products of Hell, are the ones creating it.  It is irony.

Poverty is a weapon of rich.  It is the reason for homo erectus extinction, by hand of homo sapiens.  Persecution is historically our ancestry.  Our history portrays us of deforestation, creating extreme earth climates, and destroying animals, with intention of possession. 

Mining  and coincidental discoveries assisted the assault against, Troglodytes.   We often imagine our ancestors as horrible, wicked, scary people.  In fact, they might have been gentler than conquering forces that drove their extinction. 

    

NEW YORK PUTS HIT ON LEADERS Cities are lit with growing concern.

NEW YORK PUTS HIT ON LEADERS

Community needs a new look at the way they treat citizens.

There is lots of mean talk going around between police and mayors.  Mayor of New York had police turn their backs on him, when he went to  pay respect for a fallen officer.  Those police should be fired, for acts of disrespect, while on duty -- the opinions of many.

 But it goes further.  The Mayor was speaking out for his child, and saying, "No wonder police are targeted. "   He knows lots of children and people, who get that treatment on a daily basis.  Everybody who rides a subway, risks their lives on daily commutes and everywhere that lacks body guards.  It is scary to live in a city that keeps swelling with populations of foreign entity and new births -- the first thing everybody wants.  He did not mention that.

Police look different with automatic weapons and full armor -- more like invaders.  They are invaders.  Peoples homes get raided for no reason, or on suspicion of what they might be.  You might question a guy who literally attacked a cop; but you can't understand why they have to leave wounded people lying in the street, to rot.  You have to question the audacity of a community that allows police to raid homes and throw grenades on babies -- why would they be throwing grenades at all? 

Then they have, The War on Drugs (circa Reagan).  Nobody ever won a war.  If everybody is supposed to be related, why are we killing each other?  Color makes no difference when everybody is dead.  The war on drugs is probably the reason they conspired, before ruining a baby's life.

Babies do not remember, they  will say.  But, ask that kid about it in a few years, maybe when he's twenty, thirty, forty -- they will tell you different -- about bed wetting, and lying in cold sweat, fighting sleep.

When you sleep, that's when it starts.  Everything is fine.  You're warm, comfortable and at resting -- until midnight when you wake, bed engulfed in flames -- struggling to breath, fighting for air.  That war, we never win.

The communities and cities are at fault.  Looking at the demography, clearly there is a problem when the town is run by white police, and most people in jail are black.  When fifty-percent of people are jobless, or work for minimum wage, there is a problem -- it is not drugs.  The community is at fault when they fail  to help innocent children, and victims.  That violated US Bill of Rights. 

Our, Bill of Rights, no longer exist, they say.  Homeland Security rules.  Police dress different, being part of that ilk, driving tanks and armored vehicles, to crush civilians; driving Escalades and Lincolns to ribbon off in yellow tape, to advertise their high profile robo-raids; where they throw grenade's at children, and shoot little boys for playing with plastic guns. That will teach them and their parents...

It's no wonder people are angry.

Cuba in Perspective

After the President declared resuming relationships with, Cuba, you can see the change in Florida.  Half the homes are vacant on weekends.

But the population there is stable, and real-estate is at a premium for bargain hunters; nine-percent of homes there are for sale -- but that's good -- so are ninety percent of homes in, Dade county.

Cubans are happy to have US treaty; they haven't seen their families in years.

The relationship with Cuba was good for our President as well.  As a benefit and act of friendship, they sent him a thousand cigars.

Cuba is a great country.  People there have to be admired.  We haven't seen or heard about them in fifty years.  It's hard to remember that far back -- especially if you are only thirty years old.  But, I like Cuban people for their spirit.  They've lived under the gun, in the sight of US, surrounded by U-boats, for protection; and some of us here in America, know what that's like -- we can't breathe. 

Cuba is a great country, and it will be interesting to see who they send over there to represent US -- will they land on the island, or will they just walk over, from Guantanamo bay.  But, they have to send somebody; you need to wonder if they will be representing, T-Party, or Michigan T-Pot Party. 

Seriously, do you think they will allow bicycles at US conciliate in Cuba? 

We don't have to worry about US embassy for Cuba here in America.  They already have one in New York.  It's a classified secret, just like Dr. Chen.  But not many people are flocking to visit Cuba; CIA promises a free cancer screening for every applicant.  The only reason they have so many people coming there; they share a space at the magazine stand, and everybody wants to read about Cuba, after fifty years.

Taking Over Cities

TAKING OVER CITIES

"We're taking the city over."

"Whoa.  Isn't that kind of violent?"

"No.  We have it planed.  We took the first step."

"How did you do that?"

"We elected our mayor."

"Isn't that, Mayor White?"

"No. This moment is confidential.  We are about to depose him."

"No kidding."

"Yes."

"How?"

"We elected our mayor and he helped us select our new city council."

"I thought that's why they held elections."

"No.  Bought and advertised elections  give us bought politics that destroy us."

"How is that?"

"We are a clear majority.  They want us to be divided amongst ourselves, so that we cannot take over our  destinies."

"They've done that for years."

"It is time now.  We are taking over this city."

"When?"

"Starting midnight."

"What will you do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"The bridge on River Qwai is already wired."

"What?"

"You remember Dr. Kim?"

"The President?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't, Bridge Over the River Kwai, a movie?"

2

"I'm talking about Qwai.  It is code name, and we pronounce it different."

"What are you talking abour?"

" You remember that movie they had out, Kill the President, or something like that?"

"Intervert?"

"Yeh, I think something  like that, it was called"

"Oh.  It was about,  kill the President."

"Well, yes."

"Why do you interpose a  well into things, when you start getting excited?"

"How do you interpret such ovservation?"

"I took a course in anger management, while working on my doctorate. "

"So, what does that have to do with it."

"When people get upset or excited,  their voices elevate."

"Am I angry or exciited?"

"You tell me."'

"Do you want to hear this?"

" What?  You want to blow up, City Hall."

"We're going to take it over."

"What's that got to do with, President Kim Jun Un of, North Korea ? 

"Qwai, is code name for the activity, resulting from the movie of his defamation."

"You mean his demise; isn't that what you're making reference to, Doctor?"

"To be technically correct, yes; but, Qua refers to a different river, crossing two nations."

"It's going off at midnight?"

"Coincidently."

"How would you know that?"

"We've been talking with them for months."

"That's absurd."

"Midnight"

"Wired?"

"Yes."

"Me too, I guess."

"Have some coffee.  It will settle your stomach."

"Either that, or make you puke, right?"

"The Mayor will be here shortly.  We need to look proper for him."

"Is that why you requested that we each wear suits?" 

"Everybody will wear a suit."

"Everybody?"

"Everybody who wants to get in."

"And take City Hall over; starting at midnight, to be announced by our mayor."

"Yes."

Rogers Park

Rogers Park

One bright Saturday morning, our weekend began as normal.  We were early to feed our pets; their schedule which habitually fell into our normal workday routines, included morning breakfast and walks. 

City buildings cast shadows of filtered morning sunlight; the rays reflecting on the upper branches of leaves, and light focusing upon west-side building tops, as we walked the sidewalk, heading into the park.  It was a pleasant day for us.  I could inhale fresh earthy odors, to regale in my previous country existence; as it had rained during the past evening.   Lexi seemed even more chipper than her usual self while we walked along park lanes, she chattered away, and I immersed into my own thoughts. 

We stopped beside our tiny neighborhood petting zoo that featured several small goats, two pigs and a llama named, Prince; and food friendly mourning doves that happened to live there. 

“I love these animals,” Lexie said, as we paid the attendant our admissions. 

“It’s for sale, this whole menagerie,” joked the attendant who happened to also be owner.

I was thinking, “We don’t have enough land.”  All of this would never fit into the tiny back yard of our bungalow lot.  Trimmed hedges, a wee garden of summer greens and couple of squash, would soon lay in ruins as victim to waste, with the inclusion of vegetarian pets.

We walk along the walkway, dog leashes in hand, with a small white paper sack of goat pellet food, and another large bag of popcorn, toward a park bench which faced southwest; where we could sit and feed our borrowed pets while our backs warmed.  

“What would you do with a petting zoo?” asked Lexie; as if plying me for an answer to something I earlier ignored.  Sometimes you want to leave things alone, and settle with realistic thoughts.  

“Normal people have jobs not zoos to run,” I said, gently squeezing her hand, in wishful thinking.  Lexi loved animals.  We each had a pet dog.  There was also our Paco, our cat who constantly tortured our, Muffy dog, an oversize Sheltie that tormented an opossum family living under the porch.  “I think we have enough pets for now.”  I was quietly wondering what it might be like, having too many animals, tied into a city-theme, mini-zoo. 

“What would you do, if you won the lottery?” she question.

I thought about the question and answered, “I guess that is something we don’t have to worry about.”  It was a safe answer, but not from Lexi.

We had walked along our park sidewalk, innocently enough; we would have done that anyway, and it had seemed just like any beautiful weekend I could imagine.  It had rained the previous evening, dampening the great spans of grasses cultivated into lawns with pleasant shade trees that were now dripping water off their leaves, onto park benches, and the fresh warm odoriferous earth was intensified by that aforementioned. 

The day seemed normal for our adventuresome weekends, mostly facsimiles of each – and it always felt good in my heart to be so much in love – so this day felt allot like the rest, with the exception of our park venture.  That felt different.  The owner, Bennie was dressed exceptional for that morning.  Usually, you’d walk by and he’d be feeding animals, cleaning out stalls with a manure shovel; he’d be hefting flying poops and straw onto a cart awaiting, to be piled and finally disposed into a dumper truck, assisted by a bucket loading tractor.  That, I marveled at.  The idea of driving a dumper and operating a bucket end-loader captivated my imagination – not the idea of shoveling and inhaling waste products – I fantasized operating that equipment in a construction environment.  Bernie was usually attired in faded and, or stained shades of browns, varying from light to dark.  This day, he wore a fresh, crisp khaki shirt and trousers, with shiny shoes to match, and the park was open early; as we happened to be first customers.  It felt cheerful, and we were each upbeat for different reasons.

I was thinking about our breakfast, and where the rest of our day might lead us, when Lexi asked me again, about the zoo.  I told her, “I’d love to do anything with you.”

“Great!” exclaimed Lexi.  “Last month, while you were at work, I stopped for gas and also purchased a lotto ticket.  I was walking the dogs afterwards and decided to stop at our zoo.  Then I was talking with Benny and he told me they are shutting down our petting zoo, and I told him about the ‘little lottery’, thinking it might help him.  He told me if my ticket was a winner, he would sell me his zoo, for fifty percent of the win; because, he was getting nothing as it were, and the future looked grim for the pets, as there was no place other than the meat and glue factory.   I just gave him the ticket, thinking nothing of it.”

“Can you pinch me? I asked.

“I will, before day’s end,” she promised.

We parked our pets (dogs)  in our home, before heading for our weekend restaurant.  It was only a short walking distance.  I went into the backyard to feed our opossums, before we left.

Clasping hands we leisurely strolled the sidewalk toward a restaurant.   You could smell the doughnut batters and sugars for pancakes and waffles, coupled with bacon and other olfactory teasers.  I was feeling famished for some reason, thinking of all the manure I’d shortly be shoveling.  The shock was still new and I knew that I needed sugar and salt combined with sausages, once-over eggs, some bacon, and a plate of hash browns…

“Does it make sense for everybody to have a plan?” asked Lexie, as we were seated into our booth.

“We definitely made plans, beyond my imagination,” I said.  “Where do you think we might live now?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly planning on winning.  It was wishful thinking.” 

 We each enjoyed traveling, and had taken several trips with our travel trailer that we pulled with a GTO, equipped with a type-4 hitch – a heavy-duty hitch welded into the car frame, for towing heavy loads.   Our first of many excursions brought us into Tennessee hills and mountains.  It had beautiful country views, but we found nothing that really interested us about living there.   Later, we found ourselves searching neighboring states, including Pennsylvania, where most land-sites we visited within our price range, seemed riddled with oil wells; a few of them working and some visibly leaking.  After looking at several hundred properties, it was getting tiring , and felt discouraging.

 “Maybe we could visit Michigan,” Lexi said.  There were some places there we thought might be interesting; different places around the country, where we wandered.  None of them turned out suitable for our needs.  I'd just got back from, Door County, Wisconsin, where we visited  what turned out as a run-down dog kennel.  It was a very old place that needed some work.   The land was rocky, and the house's grey clapboard looked weathered by wind, with some missing.  It's foundation had settled in sand; it was built during the Depression era (early nineteen hundreds).      It was dank and moldy in the basement, damp from lake-breezes , giving it a cold chill; and I noticed the original wiring was wound on insulators,  waiting for certain fire and shocking hazards.

"Let's visit the kennel now," suggested the lady and proprietor.           

"Great," I said, eager to leave that dank  cellar environment. 

Lexi had waited patiently in the car.  "I really don't like this place," she'd said from the start.  It looked stark, along the lake thumb, as it was located on a peninsula.  It was mostly devoid of trees and vegetation other than crab grass and lumpy exposed earth in places where dogs dug.

"Come on," I beckoned, "You'll need to see the kennel."

We were sorry we did.

The kennel looked dismal.  The building was drab grey concrete, suitable for canine prison.  It was  fenced in; an enclosure of muddy sand-patched grass.  Inside was built like a failing fortress, as the main character, the border-collie had escaped to romp the isles and mate with several females that were there.  There was mess and urine, a-plethora.  I was holding my nose, and my stomach dry-heaved.

Lexi was lost for words.

"Do you like the place?" asked the owner.

I looked at Lexi, and we laughed. 

 I was building a good supply of carpenter tools, making what I felt were pretty decent wages, as lead sawyer in a construction firm.  Lexi had her own plan.   Her plan was simple; win the lottery.  We could be instant millionaires.   Quietly, I knew that such things rarely materialized during one’s lifetime.  Secretly, she purchased a lottery ticket, weekly.   Fortuitously we won a small fortune; enough to purchase the zoo.  We would be fortunate to locate another home.

“What if we sold the house?” she asked me.  “Do you think we could have enough money to afford a country setting?”

“We need to look at places, with country settings.  Maybe we can browse national realty listings,” I suggested.  The listings came in our mail.  We started sorting through what seemed to be accumulation of catalogues from around the country, piled.  Lexi was serious. We were spending weekends traveled through rural areas to aid our search for a bucolic, life-style. 

We were having breakfast together.  “I made you, cookies and eggs this morning.”

"Great," I said, "I always enjoy your cooking.

“Do you think a weekend at, Wagon Wheel Resort, might inspire us?”  Wagon Wheel Resort, was Lexi’s place of choice when she needed a rewarding rest.  She had also been hard at work, designing food pictures for a display to be featured in, Art Magazine.  Two of us were living in a large city, both hard working, at job and home.  We were workaholics at business and somehow deviated from the path with a suggestive question; would it be possible to find a location suitable for our requirements, whatever that might be? 

We made reservations for the ranch weekend, where we spent most of time in leisure; rising later in mornings, riding horses, reading and lounging, sometimes in a huge hot tub.  I enjoyed the resort.  We knew the horses’ names, we’d been there so many times.  My rented horse, Brent knew his way around.  He liked running and seemed to have a knack for mischief.  While we were riding, I spied a trail that allured us to following.  Brent took to the trail, trotting along.  I was lost in time, mesmerized by verdure, and we seemed to be lost when emerging into an area of growth that included a house, tucked into vines that were encroaching upon it.  I had to wonder what that place had been in its finer years.  It was partially nestled into a hill that rose behind, and the building appeared to loom, emphasized by a pitched roof.  An old and faded, For Sale, sign indicated that attempts had been made at selling the home, sometime past.  We had lost our way along the path and needed to get back to the stables.  I pointed Brent in different directions where I hypotheses might head us into civilization.

I was getting desperate to try anything, as we seemed more lost than ever in our woods.  “Brent, go home,” I commanded.  His ears pricked up, as if he were on to something, and he started trotting through bushes, almost in straight line, until we were galloping down a trail, once barely visible by concealing brush and leaves.  It took all my concentration, holding the reins in one hand, and my hat in the other.  Tree limbs jutted out before us, barely overhead and requiring precision, ducking and dodging, with rising intensity.  Suddenly we were running at full speed upon a great field of green, heading across prairie at a rapid gait toward Brent’s barn.  An exciting ride was taking a turn toward terror.  Landscape whizzed by.  I felt almost inclined to do the same, evoking urination.  It took every motor skill to muster strength in retention.  His speed increased.  He was heading into the barn, unstoppable.

Brent stopped suddenly, just shy of the barn door and certain skull smashing death for unfortunate riders.  He stopped, with Jaguar agility.  Instantly.  I barely retained myself in the saddle, and virtually fell from it, just sparing myself impact, grabbing the saddle horn while dismounting. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said the stable hand, referring to my complexion.

“I feel like a bad episode of, Ichabod Crane,” I replied, handing the hand my reigns,  in route to the hot tub.

“Maybe we need to pursue this venture from a new perspective,” Lexi said, while we soaked together in the tub. 

“We need to get the trailer home. Brakes will need adjustment before travelling again.  A week at home for maintenance might be good,” I said.

“That’s a great idea,” said Lexi.  “It will give me time to coordinate my photo arrangements for the art magazine.” 

“I’ll hook the trailer up in morning,” I said.

We were driving along the expressway next day.  Everything was well.  A semi-truck was in front of us and we were coasting downhill.  The road was clear with not much traffic and we could see for a mile or more.  I applied my left blinker and a little gas.

Lexi was sleeping, and now jarred awake.  “What’s going on?” she questioned, but I was too busy trying to steer in a straight line.

I felt the wind tugging us, and the car felt like a feather, buffeted about.  We swayed back and forth alongside, trailer to trailer, while the other driver released his throttle and I slightly accelerated to pass him and steer clear of his rig.  We were already losing control.  

“Hang on,” I hollered to Lexi, but she’d already dug her nails into my left leg and blood was seeping into my chino pants. 

The trailer yawed than tilted over, while we skidded along the road, me trying to slow down.  The hill’s bottom gravity was winning.  The unthinkable happened.  I knew crash was eminent.  It was too late for flashbacks.  I felt the trailer jackknife.  I could only wrestle with the steering wheel to hold it straight, while the trailer carried us around, directly facing a speeding semi.  White knuckled, I aimed for the roadside, while we both applied brakes.  The truck cab loomed above us and we braced ourselves as we skidded.

She stopped; the driver of the truck.  Our right car-side rested along hill, with trailer laid out neatly behind us; it had dragged to disintegration.  There was broken glass everywhere, and we stared at a huge truck bumper, parked just inches before us. Our toppled trailer lifted the car off the rear wheels, and the frame looked sprung.  It was a gloomy day.

“Do you think we should find a hotel somewhere in this area, until they can fix our car?” Lexi asked me.  It was getting late in the day, after being towed.

“I think anything with a bed may suffice,” I said, not realizing what I was actually saying. 

“There is a motel, just down the road from here.  It’s only a short walk,” said the garage mechanic and body man. 

“How soon can you get us repaired?” I queried.

“That will depend on the insurance adjuster.  He should be here sometime, maybe in a day or two.”

I looked sadly at Lexi.  “There’s not much to do here.  Let’s get ourselves a sleeping room,” she confided to me.

Next morning, we were up bright and early.   I was still shook up about our mishap.  Lexi seemed eager to pick up from where we left off and continue our quest for land.  We walked to breakfast at a Mom and Pop, restaurant. 

“You look hungry,” a man said.  “Robert Slick, is my name. I’m a broker.  Did I hear you say you’re looking for a place around here?”  He turned around in the direction of a bypassing waiter.  “Give these people some coffee, waiter!”

The man appeared, as if from nowhere.  We were just getting seated, after a fifteen-minute line waiting ordeal.  He wore a suite, complete with derby hat; and a cane that he carried was quaffed in ivory, to match his white, shoes with gold buckled straps, stilted at the exterior sides.

“But, I’d rather have hot chocolate this morning,” Lexi stated.  “Who’s buying anyway?”

“Well, I insist I do it,” said Mr. Slick.  “You are looking for a house, right?”

He ushered us to our table as if the waitress didn't exist, tucking his left-hand cane under that arm-pit and barely missing the nose of a muffled guest, while he shuttled us.

“We are looking for some land,” I said.

“But, not just any land,” piped Lexi, and she explained all of our situation.

“Well, that’s easily solved,” retorted Robert, indignantly, as if he had the answers to each of our problems.  And in fact, he appeared to do so, supplying us with a rental car, paid for by our triple A card, and he also offered us a quiet place to rest while searching; all-the-while, his attitude changing as he worked frantically to find us a quick fix, and his temper seemed mercurial with bouts of laughter and hand-slapping on the leather covered dashboard, as we sped around twisting country roads.

"I've got a trailer, and think there is a place we can park it for awhile, while I help you search," said Slick.  "Everything's for sale out here.  You just pick a spot and make an offer.  Folks are motivated for business here."

We found ourselves completely at the mercy of a maniac who left us for the night at a desolate location, tucked into a small clearing in a densely wooded area.  We had adequate supplies for a basic staple of bacon and eggs, with a few extras for some creative dishes, mostly Spartan, as there was a grocery store several  miles away, but not much else.

"I love country settings," Lexi said.  "Could you imagine living here?"

"It is beyond my wildest dreams," I lamented, thinking about the stark desolation. 

The big black, Olds Ninety-Eight pulled up at the campsite.  "We're going to find a house today," exclaimed the broker.  But that didn't happen and his mood soured along with the day that brought us rain. 

"Did you see the way he slammed the screen on that ladies house?" Lexi asked, in reference to one irate seller. 

"Well, she practically chased us out, when Slick said, 'I hate cats and cat urine; which this place smells like'."

We laughed.  "Can you imagine what, Muffy would do if she,d been at that place?"  suggested Lexi.

I was thinking about that, stroking her soft head while the dog pressed her head innocently against me; but that comment had me loose and rolling on the floor, guttural with laughter that partly the product of a beer from the refrigerator.  I could not control myself.  "What do you think he's going to do when he learns we're keeping our dogs with us?" 

" He's going to be ripped!"  explained Lexi, "But, he's never going to know, if we keep them clean."

"Sure," I said.  "What about the skunk she found the other day?"

She requested sausage and eggs next morning, while I enjoyed biscuits and gravy, and we discussed our land search strategy.

"I think I'd like to go home," said Lexi.  We both need to freshen up."  Days had passed, and we were pressed for time, with the city threatening to depose our new pets at the zoo, turning some into glue.

"We are wasting time.  We need to press on."

"Johny, you listen to me.  We really need a bath."

True.  With only a sink, sparse on running water, and toilet threatening to back up, along with the empty kegger  -- that beer brew, worthy of remembrances -- we were starting to foul out.  Our due date was only a couple of weeks off, to move our animals.

The waitress avoided us, even though she served well.  We could tell she was slightly offended with the odor, as she stood back with our order.   I was sporting a beard, sprouting from neglected shaving, wearing my best, mining hat that was garnered from the shop at, Iron Mountain, another area we scoured; attired in jeans that were melding into my legs, form-fitting and otherwise hiding trail-dust.

"Let us take one more day with Bob," I said. 

"I feel like we are being, Slicked," joked Lexi.

She was right.  We got to the office in a little town called, "Shaven", where he was nowhere to be found.  One of the realtors made a phone call and we waited for a long time. 

"He got some morning appointments," the lady said.  "I'd help you, but, he said he might be in this afternoon, or tomorrow afternoon."   

We went back to our depressing lot, worried about abysmal fate.  We were letting our pets down harsh, and our efforts seemed fruitless.  So, it was Lexi's idea to get us into some more trouble, that following morning.  As I recollect, the trailer was parked, back facing a slope, while the tandems were chocked behind wheels to prevent rollback; but, there was some slippage which we didn't seem to concern ourselves with, as a chain wrapped tree secured the trailer hitch ball-frame -- so we felt we were going nowhere. 

From inside of our trailer, scenery was serene, looking out over the land, from our bunk-bed view, the perspective was different than it was, standing at ground level.    You couldn't see our slope we were set on, and it looked more as a cliff-side panorama from that angle, only to the east side; and to the south, we had an overview  of tree tops  as there were many.  Beyond those evergreens, directly before us; and we wouldn't even have noticed it -- me at least -- until Lexi mentioned it -- a lake.   "Would you look at that," she said, gently waking me the morning following depression and another six-pack we shared, that previous eve.  "Watch the sun rise," she breathed dreamily, rubbing the depression in my back ridge; then  moving her hands  up toward my shoulders, massaging her way along, titillating me into her position, and we watched the sunrise and an otherwise unseen lake at ground point,  from our romantic berth. 

"Would you look at that lake.  It looks beautiful in the sun's morning reflections.  Imagine what it might be like , down there.  Do you think it would be hard to get to?"  Lexi asked me.

It seemed an easy hike, starting from a trail heading in that direction, and it was all downhill. 

"Let me take my knapsack with me."

"Should I take my purse," Lexi chided me.

"I don't think there will be anything for sale there," I said. "Just lock it in the trunk."

The trail was fairly easy to follow at first, winding, dropping steeply, sloping slightly upward to a ridge; all-the-while increasingly difficult, but navigable, and after awhile, we found our way to the lake.

"What a beautiful place," she said. 

Mesmerized by lakeside serenity, we enjoyed the latter part of our morning, warming by the lake and later, enjoying lunch, procured from tools I'd brought with me, in my knapsack.  Producing fish-line, I showed Lexi how to fashion a hook, and make a fishing pole.  We pulled some roots, producing a couple worms, and several grubs were garnered from a rotting log.  That produced a couple lake trout that we roasted on sticks over a pine fed flame, seasoned with salt from my pack.

"Just imagine what it might be like, living here for a few days," Lexi said.

It was then I looked up at the scenery and discovered our lake had much different perspective from its base.  We started hiking on what we thought was a trail leading us back. 

"Do you think we're lost?" Lexi asked nervously.

"No," I said.

I heard rattles, before seeing the snake.  "Don't move," I instructed Lexi.  The snake was within a few feet of her. 

With my bush knife, I cut a lengthy pole to push it; nearly losing footing.  It was fighting me to claim the pole.  About the time I thought it might be winning, it turned to immerse back into the thicket, of which everything seemed to be. 

Lexi was visibly worried.  "Do you think we can get out of here?"

"We need to be calm," I said, fighting my own instincts of natural fear.  "See thoseTamaracks," I pointed her toward a pair of giant trees protruding out of the brush.  We needed a diversion.  "If we head toward them,  we may be on higher ground."

Working up a sweat, I labored forever it seemed, probably an hour or so, until we reached that destination we'd set; where I climbed one of them to look and discover lots of forest and swamp, seemingly stretching forever.  You couldn't see much else.  Everything looked the same out there.  From my backpack, I produced binoculars and what was unclear in the distance to my naked eyes, became a visible knoll.  Reaching into my shirt pocket and producing a compass, the only thing I knew is that we could be on dry land for the upcoming night.  The trek took most of after noon.

"These branches are fearce," Lexi said. "I'm hungry."  Her mood was changing.  She was getting agitated.  Her legs were scratched and she appeared to be itching also, as we'd passed some poison oak along our way.  It was getting darker in the forest and shadows looked erie.  "I'm scared," she said.

"So am I," said I, trying to comfort her.  But that didn't work.  Now, I took her into my arms and gently squeezed her around her waist.  "Honey, we need to muster some courage.  We're not in any danger yet."

"What about the snake?"

"Well, it missed you."

I took her hand in mine and coaxed her. 

"Is that a rooftop?" Lexi asked, pointing through the woods.

We could barely make out a rustic remnant of what remained, and we headed toward it, expecting to find highway, but there was nothing apparently there.  Weeds and feral growth entwined everything.  Too tired, we resolved to spend the night in the haunted house.

A door which bore letters, 666, opened part way, inviting our ingress.  It was dark inside and growing darker, but we were able to find an old decaying mattress close to a wall at one side of a room.  I'd stopped to pick some berries; an assortment of wild blackberries and raspberries, as they were in season, along the way.

"We'll have enough to eat for tonight," I confided to her.

"You make me feel comfortable," Lexi said, stroking my chest as we tried to make the best of bed.  We were sprawling, with legs spread and backs toward the wall, her head on my shoulder and I was looking toward her shadowy figure, when we fell asleep.

"Gurr."

Some time, during night, we were suddenly awoke by a bloodcurdling event. 

"Lexi, get my back pack," I instructed, reaching to group for my bush-knife, in a sheath not far from where we lay.

"Can you feel a flashlight, in there?"  I was referencing the backpack. 

"I think so," Lexi said.

"Well, turn it on, so we can see."

It was eerily light, that cast a shadow on the room illuminating Satan's eyes, and a three wolf silhouette.  I raised my blade while Lexi screamed, "Please, let them go," as she feared for their demise, in spite of our dilemma.

"Always compassion from a lamb," I hollered, swinging like a swordsman and nearly clipping an ear on an air-bound beast that fell, short of its target; as a giant goat gored it, chasing the pack from our residence which remained open-door's. 

Calmly, the goat -- later, Stan -- took to the kitchen and dining area, where he promptly relieved himself upon the floor, before lying on our mattress. 

 "I think we slept on his bed," Lexi said.

"No wonder it smelled musky," I observed.

The sun's distant light was rising, casting shadow on the moon's image, before rays could penetrate the forest, and we watched the hazy morning dawn before us from what appeared to be huge panoramic views observed by plethora of windows, while Lexi danced gleefully around, perhaps encouraged by rising daylight, having survived a difficult ordeal.

"Look at this fireplace!" she exclaimed, "It's beautiful!"

Certainly, the fireplace was an only redeeming factor in an otherwise abandoned wreck.  Although wreaking with filth from open access, we thumped the floors and they appeared solid.  It had suffered from multiple burglaries, releasing it from civilized utilities.  I scrimmaged around the exterior to produce enough kindling and several logs for the hearth and developed a healthy flame to warm us from the morning chill.

 "This place would take a lifetime to repair," I committed.

"Are you okay?"  Bob Slick had snuck on us.

"How did you know to find us here?"  I asked, after we'd explained our ordeal.

"You left your car with the trailer, and I didn't see you in town.  When you weren't at the there, I started looking along back roads, figuring you might show up somewhere, baring hypothermia and other casualties.  Are you ready to see some properties today?"

It was beyond my disbelief.  We'd been mostly abandoned at unfamiliar territory, without cleaning facilities, other than a shallow trailer sink, with no shower or tub.  We were short on supplies, without breakfast, and he expected us to continue with him.

"Is this place for sale?" Lexi asked.

  

                 

EVERYBODY WANTS PART IN US

EVERYBODY WANTS PART IN US

Modern media morphed into a new form, some time ago when internet communication became popular.  In many cases, the informed are quicker to post news than most generic news medias.  Lots of people brows the net daily, combing for new news they can only get independently from TV.

Most recently, events began unfolding across America, tailing massive demonstrations globally.  Many of the same issues ensue, as our constitutional rights were essentially stripped, shortly after September 11, inferno.  That date separated classes into categories of rich, and expanding poverty.  James River was already in history books, a paper company giant that spun off across other countries, as trees disappeared, making paper production appear cheaper in other counties, where slave-labor is historical from onset, and people are considered worthless commodities.

Expanding issues cannot be hidden under rugs, or concealed by ignorance.  These issues must be addressed.  Politicians are paid to conceal the iceberg tip; the wealth they attract is too great, when nothing gets broken up, or melded back into community. 

Today’s issues of growing poverty and massive cutbacks for increasing homeless and downtrodden people, is direct result of blatant government corruption.  Homeland Security Act, consist of thousands of pages, and took years of compilation.  It is so massive that most legislators have never seen it; yet, it contradicts itself, making concessions for wealthy people, and granting immunity for public murders and segregations.  Nothing like this was ever written into our, Constitution, and much of it actually violates our, Bill of Rights. 

Issues arising from growing poverty are filling the coffers of rich politicians who are draining the funds from our man-made, free spirited government; and most people are controlled by the results.

It is the responsibility and job of every governor to encourage employment and increase production; at least fund an employment office.  Instead, they brag about people emigrating from other countries; they are talented, intelligent and work cheap for billionaire governors, their gourmandizing ways, foreign to most state residents, are overpaid with increasing taxes.  Not until we replace buffoonery with intellectual compassion, can we assuage these issues, let alone eliminate them.   But the issues surfaced and will remain ever expanding, until they get addressed differently.

The Room

The Room

The room is a bit of a twist; neat, with not too much furniture other than a desk, office chair and the proverbial couch, in a space large enough to hold much more; it looks stark and lonely at the end of a hallway, and the door leading in from the entrance way, across from the hallway, serves more as an egress , for those unfortunates who happen upon location.

The stark appearance from a frugal furniture selection, too small to adequately cover the room, lends itself to a mood of loneliness, one might assume.  There is a bank of several large windows, at the room's south, followed by glass sliding-door arrangement, and beckons with its warmth provided only in hours after noon -- as, the shadow is cast in morning by the east wall  providing respite for the Spartan furniture arrangement of a minimalist.