smokin crack and takin names
People, I want you to put down your crack pipes, dust off your shoes, and smell the linoleum.
Then stand up and look outside.
The world is a beautiful, fragile and resilient place.
Don't just stand there puffin on a baby-food jar with your thumb in your ass.
For pete's sake what a waste of time.
There are my feelings after two years in Sacramento.
People on crack often come to my door in hopes of assistance.
Stupidly, I often give it to them.
Their most frequent request is use of my cell phone.
Crack smokers seem to have problems with getting their bills paid on time.
They also can't really focus on much of anything, though I get the impression they feel like they are focused with extraordinary precision.
It's not just a big-city problem.
My old pal from the little town we grew up in just took a trip up there and reported that the same thing is going on there.
In a beautiful little town on the bluffs with a waterway and daffodils blooming everywhere.
It's ludicrous.
Why would you want to smoke crack when the asters are in bloom, the charming magnolias are bending to the ground with their cups of silk splitting open, the huckleberries dropping petals on the hard sad pavement of the latest development.
The death of beauty used to be a theme of mine.
It came out of my history with logging, logging equipment, loggers, and the Golden West Tavern.
I cast beauty as feminine because that seems to make sense.
I'm afraid crack is feminine as well.
The two sides of the embrace. She kisses and stabs at one time.
I think this is why people like it. They feel absorbed, loved, wanted.
But my feeling is that anything you smoke out of a baby-food jar, and filter through steel wool, can't really be that good for you.
Crack has been like a strange and sinister sub-theme running along the perimeter of my life.
When I see it, my skin crawls.
People, I want you to put down your crack pipes, dust off your shoes, and smell the linoleum.
Then stand up and look outside.
The world is a beautiful, fragile and resilient place.
Don't just stand there puffin on a baby-food jar with your thumb in your ass.
For pete's sake what a waste of time.
There are my feelings after two years in Sacramento.
People on crack often come to my door in hopes of assistance.
Stupidly, I often give it to them.
Their most frequent request is use of my cell phone.
Crack smokers seem to have problems with getting their bills paid on time.
They also can't really focus on much of anything, though I get the impression they feel like they are focused with extraordinary precision.
It's not just a big-city problem.
My old pal from the little town we grew up in just took a trip up there and reported that the same thing is going on there.
In a beautiful little town on the bluffs with a waterway and daffodils blooming everywhere.
It's ludicrous.
Why would you want to smoke crack when the asters are in bloom, the charming magnolias are bending to the ground with their cups of silk splitting open, the huckleberries dropping petals on the hard sad pavement of the latest development.
The death of beauty used to be a theme of mine.
It came out of my history with logging, logging equipment, loggers, and the Golden West Tavern.
I cast beauty as feminine because that seems to make sense.
I'm afraid crack is feminine as well.
The two sides of the embrace. She kisses and stabs at one time.
I think this is why people like it. They feel absorbed, loved, wanted.
But my feeling is that anything you smoke out of a baby-food jar, and filter through steel wool, can't really be that good for you.
Crack has been like a strange and sinister sub-theme running along the perimeter of my life.
When I see it, my skin crawls.