just around the corner from my home, across Yesler, twenty giant steps~ can take you back into a time when we were all poor, the economy was sitting in the basement, all the storefronts were boarded up, with old guys living inside, without water or electricity~
driving old beaters like this, scrapping metal, picking up junk, driving slow, with no direction
i see them as i creep around, staring at hoods, invisible tools, sold off, stolen, in workers green coveralls with huge white basketball shoes, thin old ghosts~
this vehicle rarely moves, i think it's waiting for some parts to come in from china
fantastic patina of mold upon the hood of a once mighty crewcab
back when nobody owned a crewcab, this guy constructed things, decks and wheelchair ramps for old diabetics, basement bars for connected playboys, in lavender suits and Kangol's
now the truck just sits while old guys wait for this economy to hustle~ maybe we need a new Convoy song to brighten our days and pull us into the new economy, one of intellectual pursuits, but where can these men fit within a concept of invention, innovation and technologies structure ?
who will install our ghetto gate front doors, our bars for the windows, when we are all hiding within our little fortress homes pleading to our cellphones for work
quick someone throw a prop under this roof, and save that mustang, move that Capri out of the way, is it a Capri, i cant recall, wake up the men sleeping it off in the back seat, Microsoft wants our land, Starbucks wants our mornings, Seattle University wants our young, Swedish* wants our corpses full of cash, the future belongs to pretty things in shiny cars, polished sunglasses, frosted lips and wired to an outside world with no connection to neighborhoodmy townhouse neighbors hate me because i talk to them and am always in the front yard waiting to wave and ruin their little dog walks, and i, love them for being uncomfortable, wealthy and white
N~
* the hospital two blocks north of here
