09
Dec
11

Refrigerator Heaven pt. 2; Giggling voices Amongst the Insane

We’re today’s scrambled creatures,

locked in tomorrow’s double feature

-David Bowie “We Are the Dead”

Anticipation weighed on my shoulders as I approached the end of the line where the LoDo shuttle lets passengers off. This was the no turning back point and right across the street the zombies set still in the crisp winter air, meandering amongst themselves like wasted human flotsam, biding their time. I approached the scene wondering if I should have made one more trip back to Starbucks for another pipe in the bathroom session; it was now getting cold enough to make this excursion seem more task than leisure. Since leaving Starbucks I had left the Bob and Carol world of fine clothes and drinks at eight behind and stepped into a third world environment of political prisoners. The torture inflicted on these poor devils was self induced because no Capitalist Pig would be out here to see them or give a rat’s ass if they lived or froze to death.

The main causeway of action for the protestors takes place in the downtown park with a spectacular view of lights on display from buildings near the Denver U.S. Mint. Iron benches line a double wide sidewalk that takes you inside Civic Center Park, typically known for housing street people and random low key drug users. I began to walk that stretch of sidewalk that leads up into the park  which is lined with human tragedy, lost souls ensconced et al, beneath layers of mud streaked parkas and faded comforters. Last night had to be rough on them and now this sidewalk crew had created a line of small domiciles out of plastic tarp and canvas. No longer tolerable to just lay there on the street they had taken the initiative to build cubby holes which will be destroyed by Denver’s Finest on warmer days ahead. For now they are allowed to fester in their small shanties where I can hear giggling voices chanting poems and what-not to drive the chill away. They are like frigid Tomyknockers that huddle to the foundation of some political ideal drummed up months ago. I don’t think they’re even certain why they are there anymore. I pass by the row of tents and clutter, styrofoam bowls littered about with food drying in them, they are developing vermin-like characteristics; not healthy for any of us.

As I approached the main vein of activity, the political ‘circle-jerk’ as it has been called by some, I listened in on the current order of business to see how the troops fared. One was reminded of how General Washington must have felt on that cold battleground with his troops, freezing their nuts off for a cause that seemed hopeless, yet somehow it all worked out, we became a nation, blah blah blah-Occupy Wall Street. In less than half an hour I will have to take my frozen stoned carcass on the cross town buss filled with pipe thumping gangstas to my home base and I want to get some tidbit of development out of this group for my blog posting….probably won’t happen so as I said in the first installment of this trip’s recorded journey, the end result is not necessarily the best part of an adventure, it is the journey itself that will more than often be the best part of the trip. Nowhere to be seen were likes of past trip soldiers I had spoken with like Aaron the 32 year old professional homeless person or Robert, the unemployed cable guy. Miss Kay-tee, the pie eyed food provider for so many down here was no where to be seen. Had they snuck away for a night of warmth in some hotel or had the others trapped them in their labyrinth tent village with gifts of warmth and love? I noticed some man lying on a park bench in really bad shape, coughing and wheezing, looked as if he would  not make it much longer. Luckily someone did pay him notice and began to ask around for blankets; I can only assume he was watched over. By this time I had seen enough for tonight’s entertainment. This showing dealt very little substance in the way of true civil disobedience. The active group talked and balked and continued to lose patience with their inability to drive any true agenda into a focused plan of attack. This was primal survival and all that political jive could go out the window until they got a bit more warmth into their joints. One group of zombies was mad at the other group, control freaks lorded over the other individuals with caustic verbose, lot of folks trying, lot of folks crying, even more dieing. It was time for me to get on that pipe thumping gangsta bus. Perhaps, like the cycles of our seasons, this group will have to undergo death to be reborn again in the spring. Life will go on and the 2012 race for the presidency will be at a full gallop, the Dow will go up and down like a whore on a fat man I will continue to have the best of times, and the worst of times.

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