Fleas in the Market

Flea Market Sunday, so bright, so dirty.
Walk around in half daze, thinking that just
maybe I'll find something this time, ha! Funny to
think that, 'cause there ain't nothing but shit here.
I recall, many years earlier, walking around the flea
market of my hometown. It was held at the fairgrounds back then.
Probably because it had the most space, and it seemed so
appropriate that it was there. The dirty, openness of the fairgrounds,
splayed out in the hot sun, not during actual "fair time", but
it might as well have been. Pass by myriad booths set up
seemingly straight out of some old Hispanic man's failing van.
Lots of junk for sale, nothing you need, but everything you think
you want. Just melting there in the hot sun, glistening, shiny, and bright.
Nothing much has changed, 20 years later, strolling along the old ruins
of somebody else's fortune, now trying to sell it off to strangers.
It's nothing I need, just everything I think I need. I pass on, buying nothing
but smiling inwardly at the fact that somethings really never change. The shiny
items will all be there next week; stacked and sorted and ready to be purchased.

Summer Shroud

Slow my gait
for the shroud hangs
heavy in the Albany Sky
it comes every evening
hangs over us here
like a canopy
gray and thick
gauzy and wet
bend to look up
but walking too fast
slow the lurch forward
steady the pace into tomorrow
there's really no hurry
can't avoid this massive screen
impervious opaque
it'll be here all summer
so might as well walk with it

Nickels, Nickels, a Bunch of Frickin' Nickels!

Sometimes I go on a 9:30 am coffee break with a few guys here at the office. When I first started working here I really never spoke to anyone, in a social context at least. I did my work, said "hi" to people while passing them in the halls, and generally kept to myself. But, within the past year I've branched out a bit and have opened my little, protected shell to allow a few people inside. It's not very exciting in there, and I keep certain things to myself most of the time. But, hey, I'm trying, and I'm attempting to be more friendly and accepting. I just don't believe in faking being friends with people just because I work with them. I've never liked those people who act like their workplace is their "social connection". At any rate, and to avoid lengthy, boring, blog entries, here is something quite strange that happened the other day at work:
We were on our break; Danny, Luc, the other Joe, and myself. We were walking down the street and talking about the latest, innocuous office gossip. We came upon the intersection of 4th and Virginia when all of a sudden a big, armored, money transport truck rounded the corner. It was going pretty fast and made a hasty left onto Virginia Street. As the truck turned, a small, square box seemed to magically lift-off the back and land squarely in the center of the intersection. We all looked at each other and said in unison, "What the hell is that?!" Cautiously, we approached the mysterious box. Danny, being the more curious of the group, gave the box a gentle kick with his shoe. It was solid, dense, and didn't even move. We all looked down at it and noticed what was written on the box; "Nickels, $50". We couldn't believe it, a box of $50 in nickels had just flown off the back of what is supposed to be one of the most "secure" vehicles on the highway.
The box was heavy, probably weighed around 15 pounds. And it was small too. But nickels are quite thick, and there were a lot of nickels in that little box. I didn't want the thing, seemed like some kind of bad karma to me, but I guess if I was alone and saw a box of nickels, and didn't know where they came from, I'd probably take them home with me. So Danny took them and we all had a big laugh about it. How often does a box full of money just jump out the back of an armored truck? Very weird.
Later, I couldn't help myself; I took a solo stroll down the road where the truck turned. There are some bumpy railroad tracks down there, and I thought that just maybe something "else" may have been deposited. Sure enough, just past the tracks, on the side of the road, and sort of in the gutter lay a bag with a big dollar sign on it, I ran up to it only to discover that it was certainly NOT a money bag, but rather an old, greasy, discarded McDonald's bag with a few nasty, rotten fries inside. I laughed to myself and walked back to the office. Danny was there with the box of nickels at his desk, he was debating whether or not to deposit them in a Coinstar machine and get paper currency. I'd do that, even if it does take something like 5% for each dollar. Not bad for a day's work, I suppose.