The sweet scent of freshly-cut grass, and the familiar groan of a nearby lawn mower were like fine wine to my nostrils and music to my ears.
After a five-year stretch on the inside, living on the run is freedom, but also hell. A Darwinian existence. One step worse than death.
With no change of clothes, I stink from my own piss, shit, and sweat, and when I sleep on the ground ants and blowflies crawl on my face—thinking I’m dead the blowflies try to lay eggs on my flesh.
I’m running low on food, only eating what I can steal from stores or scavenge from dumpsters.
My drinking water comes from a building’s downspout or from a nearby drainage ditch.
I’m wanted by the long arm of the law—for escaping custody for a murder charge that I didn’t commit.
Some say it may be a better life in jail, so I should to turn myself in.
But what do they know?
Certainly it would be better than this life I have now.
But this way is my way, and this way, even if I die on the streets and my soul is carried across the great divide by a flock of crows, it’s better than giving my body and soul to the cowardly FBI.
I’m like a Coyote, escaping capture, always on the run, but at least I’m free.
- Poet Stoker
Be mindful on your midnight stroll near the waterfront cool and dark, an inland fog like a dungeon of mist will leave you barren, desolate, and stark. Be careful where you place your feet, many wharf rats you will meet, they’ll be dragging maggoty fish heads into holes, or doing trapeze acts upon the slimy poles. Be mindful on your wayward walk, it’s easy to slip and fall and drown in the murky dock. ~ Poet Stoker
Along life’s bumpy dirt-covered road there’s an animal you ought to know well, he’s wrought with terror, and born from thunder, during the howling winds of hell. His eyes have a ruby red glow, his coat is slick and fine. He’s called the black hound of depression, or so some people say, and no amount of medication can scare the black hound away. It would mean your demise, so please people be wise, do not allow the black hound inside your mind. On some windy night you’ll awake with a fright and onto the city bridge you’ll find.
Leaping to your death, you think, is the only escape to keep the hell-hound at bay. Downward you’ll plunge into the great abyss, giving the water below a sapphire kiss.
Your mind’s videotape spins it’s last reel, the final frame will show the black dog, still nipping at your heels. ~ Poet Stoker
The gawking crowd watched on in amazement that day as another drowned body was taken away,
In a failed attempt to skip from ship to shore he’d lost his footing and was seen no more,
Mr. Beck he was a good old man but too many times he’d had drinks in his hand,
A Ten Penny beer in his back pocket was clear, and his body was dressed in white turtle neck gear,
Beck’s bloated body was all that remained of his beautiful soul that night in the rain,
Macabrely they paddled in their little row boat until nearing Becks’ body which was close by and afloat,
Beck’s death grip was pried loose from the slimy-green-spiles, as his two grown sons, Kenny And Neil, stood silently weeping a while,
What a way to say goodbye to your dad, god bless their souls, Father raised out of the harbor by hook and by pole. ~ Poet Stoker
*Dedicated to the late Clarence Beck, RIP.
Written By @cagestokerblog
It’s funny sometimes, how one thought can lead to another, and before you know it, you have an entire novella, nearly. When September came to my small Canadian town it brought with it feelings of melancholy, and fear. I was an only child, a mere boy of ten, yet I could not help noticing that the sweet-breezes which once whipped across my sweaty-brow in mid summer were now beginning to feel cold against my young skin. It made the little white hairs on my youthful arms involuntarily stand at attention. I hated that. Yes, my favorite season, summer, was losing the battle to keep us tucked away in it’s velvety comfort zone of warm weather. Slowly the kaleidoscope of colors in nature’s pallet, specifically the beautiful green surroundings, began to fade and die—transitioning into a manure-colored brown. For some of us, along With the arrival of Autumn, there suddenly came forth a depression like no other.
Just thinking of it filled our minds and bodies with internal-goosebumps, and crying spells for no obvious reason. Perhaps brought forth by frozen memories of winters past. Our sleep too, began to get restless and our hearts sank low as we gazed out of our front window at breakfast and saw the first sign of morning frost on our once carefully manicured lawn. A warning sign that, in a few short days, we’d be reluctantly returning to that awful dreaded place called school. And that depressing thought was followed by another reminder about the months ahead, that there would soon be another dreaded word, called snow. Snow gives me a case of the “heeby-jeebys. Those big ‘ol dark clouds coming over the horizon—resemble a pack of hungry wolves. This thought caused me to remember one of my grandfather’s god awful phrases “The Dead Of Winter.” It seemed to me, in my young mind, that summer should also have a phrase such as that, seeing as Summer is “dead in the water” most seasons. It’s my favorite time of the year but it’s over before it begins—at least it seemed that way to me, at ten.
Summer is short by design and winter is hellish long. Winter is a season which seems to have all the powers of Hell at it’s command—except for the heat.
Wintertime also meant bed-time came much too early. And with the help of the grandfather clock in the kitchen, winter turned day into night even before we’d had our supper. Darkness was upon us. And if a blizzard came, and it was bad enough, it could lay to waste everything in it’s path. Ten feet tall snow drifts made streets impassable. Once, a particular snow storm, named “White Juan” turned my entire city into a war zone. It was surreal. It was like we humans were suddenly forced to play movie roles, starring in some primitive and Darwinian spectacle where everyone had to fight for survival. There was no electric, so therefore there was no heat nor any hot water. No lights, no TV, It was like death. I hate winter.
~ Poet Stoker
Nineteen and thin, a sexual beast, her skin was a feast of coffee-mocha brown; the poor boy was lean and not quite sixteen as she spun his head around. It was an awkward approach, but she sparked-up a roach as they revved-up her burgundy car—drove around for a while, too nervous to smile, as the tape-deck played Hendrix guitar. Parked by the lake, it was no mistake when she killed-off her front headlight beams. It was late at night but he’d put up no fight, as she slowly unbuttoned her jeans. The leaves rustling in trees, mixed with their love moans on the breeze, seemed to echo in nearby streams. ~ Poet Stoker
What if in the future being right was wrong?
What if good was actually bad?
What if, in some futuristic war, ten million animals and humans died and, because the world was so over populated by then, it was thought upon as a good thing..wouldn’t the planet have more room to breath?
What if zero was the highest number..then what friend or follower number would social media use to addict our children?
What if blowing-up yourself and innocent others in the name of religion was really not a terrorist act, but a way to cleanse the earth of those who have too much, and think too little of smaller countries by rewarding greed, using government corruption to get rich, and then overcompensating those who are destroying the natural balance of the earth’s crust by digging for oil which is no longer there?
What if death was right and life was wrong?
What if both heaven and hell were here and now—and all of this planet’s beautiful life forms were merely cancerous growths in disguise, eating, breathing, defecating and spreading, until finally in the end consuming the hand which fed it?
~ Poet Stoker