Gatsby Themes Gallivanting Amongst the Garbage

Washed ashore from some executive suite. You can rummage through the drawers all you want. You won't find what you're looking for. What was lost can never be found.

Toppled onto its side. Vulnerable and helpless. It's milky, soft underbelly exposed to the circling vultures. Like a beached orca. Mooing at some uncaring God. There shan't be any documentaries pleading your plight. No boycotts of Sea World to follow.

"I fold. By design. And in life in general."

This can of Dole is on the dole. A mere facsimile of potential, past glories. Pineapples wading around in some bucolic Hawaiian paradise. Now reduced to being squeezed into a small metal container tenement-style. Gone are the luaus and leis. Here are the crags and coarseness of oblivion.

A grotesque beauty to be mined here. A fan half embedded in sand. Like a ray scuttling along the seabed. The blustery abyss the only company. Growing more resentful of the surface day by day. Eon by eon.

Minute and far away. I'm going to pluck a Fitzgerald reference here. "Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. And then one fine morning— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Be it a warning to other trees. Nothing may flourish here. Take your verdant freshness and clean air elsewhere. We're repulsed by robust lungs and ruddy outdoor living.

No lick of paint can gloss over the profound imperfections and cracks of this street. Like unexpoded ordances left over from World War II. These tins will sit and stew at history. Unfulfilled and persnickety.

Watching over silently and judging with hollow eyes. Like the gaze of T.J. Eckleburg, “But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.”