Freedom is captivity.
To be free,
You must lose liberties.
You’re heart can be open to the world,
But you’re body will be closed to joys—
Off the grid.
No authority.
A paradise of your own making,
Keeps you locked.
Hidden.
Shackled,
In a state of renewal.
Where there is no time for rest.
Only growth.
some level of falling from grace happens in slab city
its twisted humanity
when kindness stops being nornal
when green crusaders are dismissed, unseen
like burying waste in landfill
city of slab-stick
where we live normal lives within shuttered malls
affluence superimposed on poverty
can anything mellow us
with nature clotted under sprawl?
breeding, feeding, receding
within plated walls
unable to bend the city to one's own wishing
to carry on with things just as they are
slabs pinned to the ceiling of mind
sometimes shutters open
to sun-dappled streaks on slab walkways
what are we to make of the dandelion in the crack?
a dark energy blooming between comfort and chaos
maybe we can piggyback on the hope of others
when small acts radiate
like children who empty their piggy-banks to charity
or laugh in summers of safe places
towers girdle the city
midst what we crave for but can't always name
in our stash of consumer baubles
urges like a swollen river
our weak stock options that never find a ladder
in the meantime we tread on - hungrily
Unincorporated The Slab City
Off-the-grid different community.
Slab City is a place of real danger,
whether be a resident or stranger.
Lawless free city, yet hundred fifty
families live without facilities
of electricity or sewerage,
running water : Yourself to arrange.
In Slab City retirees or visitors
known as snow birds coming to spend winter.
No need to buy any land, it is free.
Build your house with own effort in spree.
Local police may have jurisdiction :
No use in critical situation.
Get absolute freedom to commit crime.
Have perfect scope to turn into victim.
If daredevil or crazy to visit :
None gives objection or none will assist.
Rough rigorous life as if life sentence
A vagabond may gain experience.
Out in the desert, dry and wide,
There’s a place where people hide.
No rules, no rent, no locked-up gates,
Just open skies and empty plates.
Homes are built from scraps and sand,
Painted bright by careful hand.
Words of crime and dreams untold,
On walls that crack from heat and cold.
Some come to stay, some come to go,
Some criminals just want to lay low.
In the silence, guitarrists' songs still play,
At end of day, under the Milky Way.
Life is hard, the sun beats down,
Water’s rare, no nearby town.
Freedom hums like a demon's hymn,
In this place of dust and sin.
If you want to live life free,
Come and see what you could be.
In Slab City, strange and wild,
Where the earth is fierce—for criminals mild.
SLAB IS FAB
I just found out about the town of Slab City
Well, perhaps it is not really a town as such
It sounds like a mix of Hippie and Wild West
Where a civilisation, in its way, has regressed
But in fact from far away, I cannot tell much
I have seen reviews online that it smells ty
Perhaps the next step is to go and actually see
A commune of sorts, but traditionally lawless
Maybe I’ll arrange some sort of early protection
But they’ll have many needles for any injection
There will be a few who think they are flawless
Yet is this a place to live a real life or a fantasy
Otherwise homeless, some find accommodation
Old wrecks, and homes not so mobile anymore
Drugs, yet not quite the same as the Sixties was
In it’s way, a depressed and ugly version of Oz
Perhaps they would not term themselves as poor
As after all, it’s still a Californian desert location
“Squatters’ Paradise”
contains concrete remains of
an old training base
head west where trailer life reigns
and vanish into freedom
Raised a thumb, hitched a ride
random raced, inside
a freaky, desert mirage—
—then took it——solo
and slammed smack dab
into Slab City.
Oasis to lost, wandering souls
outcasts, living off society’s Grid
—crash landed—
into immediate immersion
of oddball oddities and eccentricities.
Psychedelic dreamscapes
mixed with Truth tellers—
—Salvation Mountain, God’s love
and John 3:16.
then, around the corner
East Jesus, where heathens
and aliens commune.
Find your path, your truth
along Coke bottle walls
Madonna shrines, plastic people
junk art sculptures—-
—-RV snowbirds and hippies
living side by side.
Commentary complimentary—
—spun from a grey bearded elder
telling tales of the glory days—
—of protests and picket lines
—of hazy days, flower children
and far out, rainbow dreams.
I got water and weed
I'm richer' n richer
I ain't in need of cash
you can drop me your trash
gonna make me an art
for the East Jesus shrine.
Hear this from a wizard
ole Stalin is the man
red dolphins are the truth.
Plastic legs on the roof
of my old pink Chevy
(not been to the levee)
Barbie girls, haunted dreams,
painted rats and crosses;
all singing at the Range.
Slab City; nothing's strange
a show called Jester J**z
sings semen has declined.
Blue pig fortune tellers
in yellow school busses
grow purple-flowered weeds,
sell early traded beads.
The wind howls, the dogs bark;
the dreamcatcher misses.
I chase empty beer cans
for one that might be full
use ultraviolet lamp
in Pink Flamingo camp
I am just another
wandering refugee
Snowbirds come in winter
UPS delivers.
Past Salvation Mountain
there's no soda fountain
for those that don't believe;
head back to Babylon.
You don't like my story. You don't like my song.
I guess I never did belong.
Adios amigo. I say, so long.
I'm going to Slab City.
You told me that we're insane,
the angel and devil in my brain.
There's only one place that frees us -
East Jesus.
I don't think I can stay afloat.
I need somewhere remote -
maybe, Slab City.
What's left of my life,
it ain't pretty.
I'll be on my way
to Slab City.
The sun's so hot, I'm gonna drop,
but salvation's coming. I won't stop
'til I get to the mountain top
in Slab City.
who remembers trees
when air was free from fares
guiltless
tankless
unassailable
cliches of rustling leaves
enchanted forests
infanticidal practices like nestling newborns atop boughs
cordate declarations etched beneath oak bark and canary sashes
as dead as concrete blocks
and the nearest approximation is a toy broccoli flower
wire wools welded for steel topiaries
laud the arboreal knights
growing figments stalking the future
with whom was shared breath and hearth
in Slab City
We went in a cab to see cold slab,
That did appear to be dull and drab;
Letters were distinct when viewed;
So much sadness there we ensued.
Tombstones arranged row after row;
All around green grass grew and grew;
In background were abundant trees;
In faces we would feel a cool breeze.
On a long beach many boats landed;
By an officer had been commanded;
Such a horrible place surely had been;
They died never to ever be seen again.
In graveyard each dead body will abide,
Remember all of those who there died;
Bugle issued forth such a lonely sound;
For all those who no longer are around.
In review soldiers would soon pass by,
Proudly, but still were wondering why
They did gallantly die with things grim;
Forever will never forget any of them.
Am open to all criticism and recommendations.
Need Rehab on Cold Slab
Could be because I became a crab;
What we really need is some rehab;
For while waited;
Was reactivated;
They found us lying on a cold slab.
Jim Horn
My Goodness and Great Lord
Oh my goodness and great Lord,
So He will welcome you aboard;
Will invite,
More poems write;
Hearing from does look toward.
Jim Horn
On test started with vibe and verve;
Then results had downward swerve;
Afraid;
Failing grade,
So teacher did grade us on a curve.
Jim Horn
Was a bitter quitter of the liter;
Had horrible time being a hitter
Saw some trees;
Swang at breeze;
So ended up being a rail splitter.
That tiny pause to skirt the truth, half-reals you'd paraphrase,
The subtle softly spinning gyre of cunning in your gaze,
Vague reflections from your skin - a shedding, sheltering plaque,
All concerned syllables sent swiftly bouncing off your back.
Ever adrift on fiction's lost sea, never blown to shore,
Too late I saw your hidden thirst - too easy to ignore
Evasion and avoidance - thus was piloted your ship,
You'd dance around, not run aground - you gave us both the slip.
I failed your buried, rooted pain, I missed the reddened tracks,
All facts would step aside your rime of displaced parallax,
I slighted each secluded wound, the false-trod thoroughfare,
So ends a life of wary silence, cloaked mutely in despair.
No one knew you as I did, my reward there sadly sure,
I'd like to think away now, yet the hard truths are too pure,
Blinded, perhaps, by my own fear, I let out line for years,
And all my stock of forward time now fills with bloody tears.
Upon my closing sight of you, muzzled words within your eyes,
Your final hour released you not - you'd walked too long on lies.
Santa hasn’t drunk cocoa tonight,
and he’s not dressed in red trimmed with white.
In blue denim so cool,
he is toasting the Yule
with a drink surely not mixed with Sprite!
Santa’s drink was a little too red,
and I think we have something to dread,
for he’s now in the sky
and he’s flying “too high”
as his sleigh widely veers overhead.
Had been use for the Humor Contest of Carol Eastman
* Slab City is a snowbird campsite in the Colorado Desert in southeastern California, used by recreational vehicle owners and squatters from across North America. East Jesus is part of its artistic community.
You might look at me
with your blushed pink face
Your hard pimpled complexion
But above it all I know
that your sharp edged
square attitude is all a bluff
For/Four cornered
we can all see that you really are
two faced so double the math still
just a slab
standing the test of time
waiting to be cracked through age
when your crevices may be filled
smoothed over
to tidy your appearance
and make seem renewed
a little younger cosmetically
by the touch of skilled hands
steady in their chosen profession
Yet at the end of the day
everyone knows
you are just going to get walked over
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