Monday, March 1, 2010


The Santa Cruz night beat the homeless man on the head, stripped him of his cloak, his modesty, his self-disgust. This night came with fog and darkness and a forgotten dream of central heating. The homeless man clawed his way into the nest of discarded clothes and drama. The fog stole into the air and exposed the bleak upset stomach inside the false brochure ads for the boardwalk. Come and sit in the sun. Enjoy the rides. Be one with the universe, belched the come hither ads written by interns full of meat and milk. They wrote them inside offices and buildings with light and porn and music piped in digitally and among the worst of these lies is the cigarette butt falsehoods that disguise themselves in the spiritual absurdities of glossy pages. The sixties went to seed in Santa Cruz and grew poison flowers that attracted diseased flies and torn tie dye shirts, molding in a five gallon bucket. These pill poppers and liars and lovers in vans on the beach road all sang a song of green moss. This chorus of dizzy loss brought a mansion of glory to the house of our revolution. The Beatles were merely rock stars, after all, they couldn’t change the world with a blues riff. Don’t ever put your trust in a guitar madman!

The food not bombs crew slept in bathrooms and empty bedrooms on dirty sheets made of liberation banners. The stray dogs sniffed the weeds near the dirty buckets and ate a meal of potato pleasures while the anarchist operatives smoked glass pipes and pointed at empty tables. “We are on the verge of something great. We can change the world. We can make a difference. Does someone have the lighter?”
It’s a tired time lost in the moon light of a Santa Cruz night. Gravity pulls a man on the street into the earth, it pulls him into the sandy beach and makes him beg for mercy. There are no melodies that inspire him, as a meal missed vanquishes all lust for life and a dozen meals missed makes a man forget his place in the world. And remind the man of all his meals, display a platter of fatted calves and cheese and women lusting for another and he will break into tears and plead for safety.

Food for thought

New Scientist

This comparison isn't really a practical bit of information as much as it is an attempt to pull the average westerner from the Wal-Mart tit. I don't think the point is to make you think by putting your dogs to sleep you will be saving a person's life in Bangladesh. But it supports a perspective that westerners are global gluttons. Imagine what the average person consumes...probably as much as an entire village. I mean, that trip Nick and I took to Gloucester to eat burgers and fries easily could've supported a small village for a few weeks or months. So does it mean that the trip basically condemned a village to death? Well, like I said about the Ukrainian oil fields that are pure genocide in the name of gasoline, yes. We're dealing with a global economy and global ramifications.

Street Ministry

I don't want to become the crazy guy living in the van as he preaches from the bible because I can see how that model has been played out. I'm looking for a new way to get a spiritual message across. I think music by Bob Dylan and some Nat King Cole will serve as the gospel portion of the sermon. And the message itself is easy enough to write or I'll just read Simon and Garfunkle lyrics. But how exactly should I dress? I want a sign that says "The End is Near" sort of like a tribute to previous street ministers. Like, so the audience will understand immediately what kind of message they are going to hear. Or maybe I'll have it say, "The End is Nearer." Like so they know I get the joke. If you just start shouting about intellectual renewal then you will not be heard. But if you have signs saying "Repent" then it's understood what your role is in the community.
We're talking about a new generation of street ministers so this has to be worthy to carry the torch. Any advice? I don't want to end up a fashion nightmare like Mr. Two Different Shoes below.

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