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
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
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