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Liferaft in the Abyss

Urban and narative poetry, vbog, personal journal

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  • Life Raft in the Abyss

Author Archives: Eugene Hardy

Death on 9th Street

“San Diego, CA., Most Beautiful City In America.” Grieving, candles burning the streets. Someone died here. Two days ago, A tent neighborhood was here, ‘luxuary’ apartments towering above. And the neighborhood is gone.

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.2020Posted ineconomics, Poetry, ProseTags:grieving, homelessness, poem, Poetry, Prose, Street memorial

I shouldn’t have have had that cigarette….

It was OK Before that hill. My walking slowed to a crawl    And breathing became labored. But you can’t put coins in a ATM, So now I have to have another one….

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.202010.24.2020Posted ineconomics, Personal Journal, Poetry, ProseTags:cigarette, coins, hill

12.03.2023

06:22 pm If it looks like Donald Trump, sounds like Donald Trump and stages an insurrection, then he deserves and earned his seat in court and jail. But it’s 2023. For myself, the country of the United States cannot be taken seriously. I used to write and blog more because of issues like this, butContinue reading “12.03.2023”

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.202010.24.2020Posted inPersonal JournalTags:donald trump, legitimacy, politics, trump

To Do List

Write Read Walk…. to create worlds and then go to them My feet crushes alabaster snow In foothills, where dear shoot men for dinner At the summit the orgies can last for eternity. But I have nothing to read they torched all the libraries. So I read the graffiti on the walls. I walked toContinue reading “To Do List”

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.2020Posted inMichiem, of the House of Woo, Personal Journal, Personal Mysticism, PoetryTags:deer, orgies, poem, Poetry, summit

A tale of two libraries.

A guard walks through, watching people at public desk tops. The library is new, but feels like a prison…. There is a old building that was once a main library built in the ’40s. The homeless now camp on it’s sidewalk blocking pedestrians. Neither is truly free.

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.2020Posted ineconomics, Personal Journal, PoetryTags:free, guard, homeless, Poetry

Bobo

It’s been dry all winter, So when the fire came, the forest was ready to burn. I cannot flee. They caught me when I was young, still attach to mother. I know I’m not tied down, yet I cannot flee. Tents burn, people and animals scatter to escape. The air is getting thinner….

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.202010.24.2020Posted inPersonal Journal, PoetryTags:#fear, bobo, forest fire, Poetry

What are you?

Are you a toaster? A painting? Or are you what You create? I’m someone perfecting myself as a sexual being. I am a bearer of orgasm And ecstacy. This is my way.

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.2020Posted inPersonal Journal, Personal Mysticism, PoetryTags:a path of personal spirituality, Poetry, sacred sexuality, sex

Who are we?

People walking, while people sleep in the streets. Is that an emotion, A sense of helplessness? A powerlessness, despite having wealth Or fame. Are we a people anymore? Are we human, Are you human?

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.202010.24.2020Posted inPersonal Journal, Personal Mysticism, PoetryTags:homelessness, homelessness in San Diego, Poetry, Poverty

07.21.2023

1848 I have apparently moved into a dive, a cockroach invested place 125 to 150 sq foot, with a cracked window. I wasn’t permitted to inspect this apartment. Even if they don’t give me my money back, I’m reporting them to SDHC. I’m being charged 300.00 dollars as a smoker even though I’ve never smokedContinue reading “07.21.2023”

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.202010.24.2020Posted inPersonal JournalTags:"below average", dive, room rental

Airport 992

I ride buses to get to work, to visit friends. I ride the 992 to get to work, But more often I desire to jump on a plane and fly home. Here, black are seemingly always poor and of lower class. I’m only here to make money, Only be abused.

Posted byEugene Hardy10.24.202010.24.2020Posted inPersonal Journal, Personal Mysticism, Poetry, ProseTags:black people, class, poem, Poetry, Poverty, work

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