E Street

A tribute to an Oakland morning

Oakland, the city of workers. Where foremen hop into their white Ford utility trucks and the docile blue-collar folk crawl out of bed at the crack of dawn. The soaring white container cranes stand nestled at clouds height. At a distance, the financial district engages in draconian credit swoops while, here, many struggle for a livable wage.

Staggered Matson containers vail the breaking day as the layperson marches to their post. Matson, Matson, Matson. The job seems endless as yet another freighter transverses the bay locked to drop its anchor near the loading dock. Ship captains steer forward in attempt to meet the blood thirsty American consumer demand. Cargo so heavy that it weighs on the slowly deteriorating souls of those who labor to ship it, haul it, and sell it. Evergreen, Evergreen, Evergreen. This picture gets literally obscene. 

It's a trap, you see. The sweat that blankets the chiseled faces of the uniformed oils the cogs of this self perpetuating lie. "We must save", the poor b******s secretly cry while combing through the cracks of decrepit small business facades that are graffiti ridden to the point that ma and pa are defeated. Nevertheless, all that is evident are the amber lights from the cranes that cast a dimly shadow in competition with dazzling fog whose mystery is forever stifled into the darkness of hopelessness. 

At the forefront of the grim, all that is thought of is how much bare bone flesh will have to be forfeited to match the price tag of the latest HDTV. A plastic bottle is worth $0.10. Goddamn glass is too withering on the shoulders. No need to nickel when you amass all those crummy hydrocarbon dimes. Plastic as it seems, it's all a delusional dream.  

The crane engineers yellow ploycarbon hard hat can only take so much of a beating from the industrial drills that hammer at the already wounded. For what? To be replaced by a super computer with the capability to streamline efficiency as their child engages in delinquency. Good children who are utterly misunderstood and quite frankly rarely given an opportunity to demonstrate their hearts of gold. Far from the fabricated American dream. 

Rise and shine, another ship collides against the sleepy tide. Let's rewind our clocks to accommodate the littered streets that reck havoc on the neglected Oakland streets of A-E. "Those people don't pay their fair share of taxes", assert the ill informed. "To the left of the syringe and over the shattered Hennessy fifth", the far cries warn. The tattered sun beaten fence that borders the urban garbage pile from the meticulously recycled Pabst cans are a canvas of wonder. 

The dilapidated corner store yards away from the elementary school is the drug front for junkies looking for some a*s and their next fix. "Twenty my friend", the store clerk demands. "Eggs aren't free, but I'll throw in a grape flavored Swisher Sweet", the slouching bearded clerk slurs. What a failure, but so livid with spirit. Hot dog stands at corners of missing sidewalk slabs replaced with meaningless neighborhood watch signs. This is Oakland. The hood where both good and the hungry are somehow intimately complacent. Nonetheless, the days go on. The tug keeps on tugging and the waves continue on splashing.