Local singer/songwriter/videographer Scott Wilson posts a short film on the North Dakota pipeline standoff
Jay Allen Sanford 9 a.m., Dec. 8
San Diego is my city no particular region do I claim. I've walked these streets during times of glory and in times of pain. People, places, and things the names may be different but they're all in the game, running around this crazy town as multitudes of malarkey march single file through their brains.
Each morning when the day begins to break, I glance towards the tick, tock, of the clock; the chime of 7:00 a.m. has arrived as I'm cast out like a stray. Biding my time roaming around the pounding of my feet on the ground, where do they want to go today? A city siren screams and strains rushing to the aide of a pedestrian without a name. There's crowd a plenty line up around the block to have a cot and a meal for a single day. While 100's of others find refuge from the tiny dimensions of a store overhang. You can't deny the view of that new boy in blue who ain't got beef with you because no dirt stains your face. He piles those tickets high as he pokes and prods the homeless and the needy whose only crime is having nowhere to stay. So look out upon these crowded streets, shrug your shoulders, turn your head away. What's out of sight and mind to the likes of you will still continue to exist today.