Blood on The Street

A homeless man was reading from a torn book, wedged between the bus stop and a brick building, he had a bushy white beard. I walked by and smiled and he smiled back, like we shared a secret.

I went to the bar last night and they let me stay till 3. The bouncer kicked out a guy who sported a Jewish afro, but I think that was incidental to the incident. The bartenders were beautiful and kind. I wanted to stay there forever, in the dimly lit room, nursing an Amstel Light.

Yes, I drink Amstel Light.

The moon is a heartless thing tonight, made of chalk and fantasy. I feel like dancing around a bonfire and freeing my inner pagan. I feel like shouting your name at the top of my lungs. I want to tear apart a steeple and turn the wood into a dance floor to boogie with the Lord.

There’s blood on the street.
There’s fire in the heat of the sun.
There’s a person I want you to meet,
he has a bushy white beard and calls you son.

When light won’t reach you, you have to learn to love the dark.
I drove on the grass and tried to put the pedal to the past.
When your home’s on fire, you have to jump in and swim with sharks.
I fled from the city and followed the heart of a girl so wise and pretty
she makes me look like something inhuman.

I’ve been thinking about Bob Marley today, for some reason, how he was a beautiful man but not really a good husband. He died indirectly from stubbed toe he suffered during a soccer game that turned into melanoma.  Such a simple end to such an elegant life. His last words to Ziggy were, “Money can’t buy life.” He was right.

His light was so bright it couldn’t last that long. He was 36. I’m almost 34. It makes me wonder what I’ve done with my life. Jesus was 33 when he died. Do I hold any light at all?

There’s fish in the pan and it’s hissing loudly. The Grammies are on in the other room and I can hear my neighbor watching them too. We live in little boxes and wave at each other from ten feet away. Sound travels through walls, melts into the atmosphere like a voice singing a lullaby to a sleeping child. Are we living in a dream?

Are we just tourists in our own world?

There’s blood on the street.
There’s fire in the heat of the sun.
There’s a person I want you to meet,
he has a bushy white beard and calls you son.

Laundry detergent mostly comes in concentrated form now. Soon there won’t be the former weaker traditional strength. Will the fine folks at Tide and Cheer still put 2x stronger on the bottle? Or will we just accept that laundry detergent is more powerful than it used to be and leave off the unnecessary qualifiers?

These are, sadly, things I think about.

I was watching a bunch of mindless television, trying to unwind before going back to work on Monday morning, watching Dr. Drew’s Celebrity Rehab, and I noticed that they kept showing commercials for animal rescue, with shots of hurt and sad-looking animals and a sappy soundtrack that tugs at your heartstrings. Tragic canine countenances. Tenebrous feline faces. As if Celebrity Rehab isn’t depressing enough already.

If the world were a ball bearing it would be smoother than the smoothest man-made ball bearing. If a spoonful of the sun was brought to Earth it would scorch everything around it for one hundred square miles.

Here’s Bob…


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