Can you believe that in some counties here in the Bay Area, a six-figure salary is considered ‘low income’? Hell, if Silicon Valley was it’s own country it would be the second richest country in the world, just behind Qatar.

So tell me why, being in such a rich part of the world surrounded by the latest technology that instantly connects you to people and resources there are kids that live on the street with no food to eat, or clean clothes to wear? Why are teachers reaching into their accounts to provide those same kids and others with tools, knowledge, wisdom, and hope to persevere and overcome these atrocious adversities? Why are communities and cultures that have been deeply rooted for generations disappearing in plain sight? Why do people live in tents and some in cardboard boxes? Why, with all the money, power, and resources at such close proximity, do “invisible communities” exist? Let’s face it, if six-figures is considered low, then the average person must be nothing.

Sustainable regenerative models have an underlying sense of belonging. If we, and willing we can, cultivate real relationships with our neighbors we can work together to create a community - a society - that is nurturing and beneficial to all.

A tree works best in a forest, not alone nor in a grove. Alone the tree can only do so much and a grove is much to similar and demanding. But a forest however is diverse and naturally connected by way of life, never taking more than than needed, but always giving more than expected. A natural ebb and flow inclusive of all in proximity and beyond.

But what do I know. I’m just a tree planting a seed among a forest that could be.

I am from my birth pillow.
I am from loneliness, sadness...
spaciness...
...I was always looking for something.

I am from dandelions and tall, tall grass.
The breeze sifted through the yard, and the
blades swayed in perfect synchrony.

I am from Christmas Eve at Grandpa's
house, and the low status gifts.  From
****** communication.  From stones, and Nelsons.

I am from living in fear,
and abandonment.  From,"You're like him."
And luckily from, "You weren't MEANT to fit in."

I am from the cross and communion, and then
realizing I cannot see his face in nature's mirror.
With my own reflection being distorted by the glass.

I am from Illinois, and Scandinavian blood...
From potato soup and at times, nothing.
I am from her absence, and how fast she left.

I am from burnt up, few remaining, and rare pictures.
I am from toys I once collected, now melted.  The pillow
I had now gone.

I am from the feeling I had a consumerists mark
on the world, but my impression is more.  More than
toys or things, I have who I am.  My memories.

I have my worth.

Warmth drools like a baby
On the grime grey rooftops
Liberalism spawned dystopian blocks
The windows are never washed there
It's the rain that reveals their guts

On your bus stop murders and attacks
Rife on the Piccadilly line, the hum
Of melted Smirnoff bottle angels lays
A drunken lesbian kiss of delight
Party people live for the moment

When you step outside in the morning
To work for callus marks and gas, the trees
That line your route bob thick punk manes
In time to the beat of the rocking trains
They know what The Clash is about

And when you come back from a getaway
Seaside trip with sand in all your cracks
A little salt on your lips, an assault in the paper
You wallow in the polluted city allure
Like you're breathing in god's ****** incense

There it lies, the roll-up skyline
That would make any two-shoed god give in
To railway bridge peer pressure on his chest
At 4 am with deodorant blowtorches spinning
Leaving entrails of delight in the filthy half-blackness

It's a privilege to live in for sure.

फटे होंठ की लकीरें
या कपड़ों में पैबंद ज़्यादा थे?
फिर भी, लाल बत्ती सी चमक आंखों में थी।

बोली में तेज़ी, " ख़रीद लो मैडम "
या मजबूरी ज़्यादा थी?
फ़िर भी, बेचने की कला बड़ी अद्भुत थी।

बेरंग दिनों को बदलने की कोशिश थी,
सामने रंगीन पर्दे सी ज़िन्दगी थी,
पर टिकट उसके लिए, महंगी थी।

I imagine you at my age
Younger, stronger and ambitious
You literally cracked your spine
Once healed, cracked again by soil foreign  
That bore you no fruit
But fruit were born from the womb
Of the love of your life

I imagine you had it all
But poverty was placed between your eyes
Tried to go back home
Catch the dream you once had
Build a home your children could inherit
But all they wanted, was to snuggle in your strength
Listen to a strong heartbeat
Reading them nursery rhymes

Tears begin to flood my vision
When I realise, your life
Is mirror to my own
I inherited recycled dreams and hope
From a land that bore me no fruit
When all I wanted, was to inherit extra time with you
Snuggle in your strength
And listen to lullabies

Born to a *******,
He was her worst nightmare.
He had rendered her out of shape,
and thus out of business.

He was thrown into the streets to look for work
When other kids happily went to school.
Soon his repertoire boasted of a variety of jobs...
Working, begging, stealing- he'd done it all.

The dark, filthy streets were his home,
Where he was abused and bullied
by those who were his brothers in fate.
He was a prisoner of his own childhood.

Sleep was his escape,
Where he was a king of a distant land.
The sun shone on his face,
Jolting her back to him to his grim reality.

He dreamt of escaping this labyrinth of pain and suffering.
But what did the future hold for him?

Perhaps his story would have a happy end
And he would be a lotus in a ***** pond,
A diamond mined from a coal mine,
A messiah to others like him.

Or perhaps his life would be devoid of any happiness,
And he would become a thief, a dacoit, a gangster,
Like a maggot, which is born on the rotting,
Lives and feeds on it, only to die there.