Doug Cloney died yesterday. His things were gathered up, piled into milk crates, and put out to the curb. You’d think that would be the end of it. You’d think a nobody like Doug Cloney, a schizophrenic living in a group home, surviving off of social security and welfare, prone to violent outbursts, medicated into remission—you’d think that his passing would be hardly noticed.

But stacked milk cartons, full of an assortment of collected goodies—it’s hard to just pass that by, and to the darling girls who lived a few houses down— well curiosity called.

As they rifled through Doug’s keepsakes they memorialized his life, this was the unabridged obituary of Doug. A photo of the Manhattan skyline with a screaming newspaper clipping taped to it—“UNION WORKERS DEMANDING MORE MONEY!” he had written “Cheapos, you just want to get in on the action.” Stacks of pictures, articles, and drawings of his favorite people: the pope, princess Diana, and Brittney spears.

As the girls rifled a box of newspaper fell to the ground and clippings fluttered into the street—each article had taped to it the bold date from the front page of the newspaper. On some with headlines that seemed threatening he had taped the labels from his prescription bottles: “DEATH OF DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES”– Novo-Olanzapine “BRITTNEY LOSES IT” — Lorazapan.

He wrote poems:

The monkey fashioned for himself a stylish stool
Led a procession of several scores of mules,
Saying, “In this land that is speckled with trees
With the great eagle I soar free.
There is one watering hole, one sky.
The day is done; the top banana is I”.

Books for children and adults, a ceramic lumberjack, plastic dinosaurs—these were Doug’s things, the things that were dear to him.

As the girls filled their arms with copies of “Curious George” (soon to become a gift for a nephew), the ceramic lumberjack (that now rests on the mantle), and a nice shelf (currently holding coffee cups in the kitchen)—they noticed that Doug didn’t have any letters from anyone else. In all of these things—nobody had written him anything worth keeping, or simply, nobody thought him worth writing to.

“Look at this,” one of the girls announced.  She palmed a small envelope that was taped to the underside of the ceramic lumberjack with the words “To Doug” written on the outside. The card was embossed with silver balloons on the front. The words inside, written quickly in a light blue gel pen, read: “Happy Birthday Doug. Love, Heather”

It seemed appropriate.

I sit stationed at the front desk, writing e-mails and handling my business. Outside they wander from city sidewalk to mailbox. They lean against windows, spit, sputter, and laugh. They aren’t afraid to make eye contact—because most aren’t willing to meet their gaze. They are the forgotten, the ugly, the sleepless.

They set up camps in doorways, one is dozing off right now—he apologized as I opened the front door, “Sir you can stay, but I don’t want to wake you up when I leave.” As the glass door whined shut he muttered, “I haven’t slept a whole night in two years, another night won’t matter.”

He left room, he sleeps sideways tonight.

Underneath a blue sleeping bag his body rises and falls. Whisps of bright gray hair peek out from a red cap, his battered foam mat curls up around him—holding him tight.

The theatre across the streets empties quickly and soon the night is filled with those who can afford the luxury of tickets. While the revelers fill the streets, his body rises and falls with the same cadence, he is indifferent to the noise.

Two young men, they sneak up to the sleeping man, and I watched in horror as they kicked him in the legs as hard as they could. They roar with laughter and run like cowards. The old man struggles up yelling and shaking; spitting and cursing.

Ripping through the haze of sleep, he screams: “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT YOU MOTHER FUCKERS?” On the curb he stands drooping as they laugh at him from across the street. They don’t know why they did it, they don’t have a clue. And how could they, how many of you have slept on a sidewalk?

I run to the kitchen and grab an orange, I lean out the front door, and I hand it to him as he settles back into bed. “Have it for breakfast, whenever you wake up” I say.
And with sad eyes he looks at me while cradling the fruit in his cracked hands, “I haven’t slept a whole night in two years.”

(Pomplamoose on YouTube) | (Pomplamoose.com)

For every inch of appreciation I can muster for the world around me, I am rewarded with a foot of happiness. So I appreciate for miles and the rewards go on for as far as I can see.

This life, it is a gift.

On the fifteenth of March they gathered,

to remember their fallen friends, who were executed quietly.

As they zig-zagged through the streets of Montreal,

they cried out for their comrades, “Lapointe bourreau de Fredy!”

They marched without fear, knowing fully well that this was only a test.

They broke every rule, only to see what could happen,

if they decided to write their own rules for a change.

They wanted only to believe,

that they still had the power, if they decided…

To change our world.

Last night there was this girl—who reminded me of the night before.

She smiled at my jokes,
enjoyed my self-deprecation,
and touched my arm to console when I told her:
“I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’m looking for something.”

This heart of mine, I can’t even keep it tucked into a sleeve.
I hand it out on business cards to all I meet.

But this one was blonde, and yesterdays was brunette.
The one on Wednesday had big aspirations,
while Tuesday had a super-human intellect.

Monday had feet that smelled,
so we took a bath together.

Sunday only wanted to dance,
So she taught me how to tango.

“We all want the same thing.” I said, as we
sprawled across the bed/
lathered up/
danced tightly.

My hands caressed spines,
and kneeded collar bones.
“We want to be adored, to feel special—if only for a brief moment.”

Her eyes
looked away from mine/
glazed over/
closed.

My thumb rested on a racing pulse,
while the tips of my fingers weaved whisper-fine neck hair.
“And I can do that for you; if only for this brief moment.” I said;
as if to declare something.

But, all the while I knew.
When tomorrow came, when I saw her again,
Her glossy eyes, shivering spine, and polished neck—
None of it would remember me.
So I’ll do what I always do when reminded of the girl from the night before.
I’ll start over again.

I am a member of the information society.  I am a digital native. I have multiple  facebook, twitter, and gmail accounts.    I am connected to my friends, family, co-workers, the news, television and every single form of media imaginable.  Information is at my fingertips.  I command Wikipedia to answer my questions, dictionary.com and thesaurus.com help me to be articulate, and google fills in the blanks.

These are tools that I use everyday, and I wouldn’t know what to do without them.  But I am lucky, and if you are reading this—so are you.  You are one of the 1.7 billion with internet access.

Since December 2009 myself and a team of others have been working on a little project.  We believe that the internet, with all it’s shortcomings, has changed what it means to be human.  No longer does the disemination of ideas take months, years, or lifetimes– instead the transaction of knowledge is almost instantaneous.  Anyone with the ability to get online has a digital voice that can be heard around the globe.  We are all connected.

And as the internet has enabled this, I believe that we need to assure it’s continued availability, and growth.  Only 26% of the world’s population is online, there exists no failsafe mechanism for when disaster strikes rendering networks inoperable, and the developing world lags far behind.

Myself, and a team from all over the world are working to build a network that will allow most everyone to use the internet, free-from-cost.  A world wide ubiquitous network that will allow most anyone access.

We believe, as do most of you, that internet access is a human right.  We plan to enforce that human right, because– unlike some of the more challenging human rights, this is a something that can be accomplished quickly.  Soon, internet access, will be as easy to come by as the air you breathe.

I would like you to invite you to join us in delivering internet access to the whole of mankind.

Visit us at @ http://ahumanright.org

All day I push through people, to touch, to talk, to share. Eyes locked, peering inside of each human in front of me I ask the same question:

Who are you?
Who are you?
Who are you?

But no matter how firm the handshake, how long the hug, the length of a conversation—I never come to a full understanding of

who
are
you.

We travel alone inside our skin; these billowing bags filled with holes.
I open my mouth to share
and as the words are built by slimy parts,
my ears close.

My thin hands reach out to touch your essence—
only to fall short upon your soft skin,
the bunker between us.

From within my fleshy bubble,
I peer out at you and wonder what it means,
to be you.

I watch each of you do the same simple things,
in so many different ways.

The silent breathing,
the click and whirr breathing.

The pulse on your neck—
fast then slow,
thick then thin.

Your feelings buried within your wrinkled brow,
your nose,
your cheeks…

They are the only clues I have to unraveling
who are you.

Do you wonder, too?

He died for our dinner.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man my son!

—Rudyard Kipling