Wealth, Poverty...BB

On the shoulders of beggarly deprivation rests defeat, and the foot of consumerist trash. On emaciated, undernourished, as if drained muscles, mounted on dry bones, flutters the clumsy, torn, and stained cloth of one's own failure, setbacks, and stumbles. And on the other Mańka, at the opposite pole, stand the real-life Blots in the statute, the hunched positions in the human social hierarchy, cancerous, breakneck, festively twisted, shapeless, decayed formalities weighing down the prominent, sturdy, fundamental structure that makes up our life's composition. Cynical careerists, success-hungry fishermen, throwing obstacles underfoot, tripping up, secret backstabbers. Bland and poor posture, hunches, and crawling children in diapers and hats, exposing their faces to spit, street grandparents. Grandchildren of a system that has fallen into ruin, sifted out by no one's will.

I walked along a street strewn with old, gloomy degenerations, peering into the gray, foreboding space and sniffing out the Cassandra-like fumes of an aura of decay. In the background, the evil whispers of the street, stretching like a yo-yo effect, and the wailing of rubber, a cry in a dark alley, in broad daylight. Momentary, unnatural glimpses of normality seemed to stand out, festive, golden needles of dry haystacks and the crumpled, scattered greenish manure lying in heaps across the city. Glimpses of real life. Central Station, Central Park, with its anemic columns, the carelessly trimmed, dirty, stained sidewalk, the glassy glass of tear-stained cardboard, the stained glass. A circle of tattered, begging hands besieged me. A moth and a snake in my pocket. Glitter and aluminum or foil-wrapped sandwiches with lettuce in a thick wallet. Stale bread a barrel of salt, peppery life in the scorching heat on dry lips, chapped from the heat, the rush of jogging, golden shit, and a black sun, illuminating with streaks of ricocheting hay bales. Baked without warning, without warning signs, baked by the eternal, conscientiously relentless, cold prose of life. A fallen wax candlestick, baking in the summer, vacation sun. Wanting to stand on the sconce, a humble folk, an artist. I stood on the edge of a quarreling barricade, on the side, with pain in my side, a soul numb from tears, corroded, and a samurai-sharp, prickly thorn in my heart. And in contrast, confronting not-so-good opinions, opposite the New World. The poetry of life. Forgotten areas I don't like to wander through, because it prompts gloomy and unpleasant reflection, for this is what I'm reminded of, my humiliating poverty, no, misery. I wander there out of need, but out of my own reluctance. A bleak, idyllic atmosphere, illuminated by a rainbow aura, a palette of sweet colors, saturated with precious metal, pristine beauty. The scent of refined perfumes, the dignified taste of cognacs, the stench of cigars, playing cards, slot machines, and ATMs. I love wealth, but I also hate it. As for my wealth, my finances don't even qualify for the average middle class. Constant overdraft, unbreakable, unpaid credit, multiple loans. Scraping pennies, counting monthly earnings, as meager as anorexic barges, and pursuing, like debt collectors, long and frequent debts. Minus the bills, of course. I'm at a loss. I'm reminded of that wonderful song I remember from my childhood, "If I were rich, szaba daba da, to by..." That's exactly what I would have done, but I wasn't! I'm so down, so much of it. Or maybe little, almost nothing. The budget hole has been patched for years, and I, like a shoemaker, keep patching up another hole in my ass, burned by a difficult life in human nonexistence, and then I go out onto the streets again, sticking out my worn-out, tired, enlarged, and swollen hand, hungry and craving food.

The fermented guano lying proudly on the sidewalk sometimes stinks, or its unavoidable destruction stinks, the air stinks, a heavenly stench and an earthly odor stinks, only more subtly.