Men in the park
grip brown paper bags
certain as Catholic nuns
grasp their faith,
both counting one
by one, until neither
makes any difference
in the course of eternity.
Two paths, one park bench—
Angelic in their own rite.
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Footnote: to Regardless of the election.
For the majority of my adult life I have lived in impoverished communities, mainly because it’s what I am able to afford. I have seen, felt, and heard the cries of both men and women, alone in gutters, pulling the arms of children onward to a life not many of us will ever lead. Some of course have made choices leading them down this path, others are facing hard times, but I see the majority of them, just as I see myself, as I see my loved ones, as common people. So regardless of the outcome of an election, regardless of the winning or losing side, I still see many men, women, and innocent children who will continue to suffer either way. I do my best to spare what little I have to offer, be it a dollar or two, a bottle of water, or even a smile which seems to go even further than the former because at least they know that they are seen, and like so many of us often feel, we like those less fortunate are not forgotten. So just be a decent person, treat people with dignity and respect, regardless of their current standings in life. Do what you can to leave the world a better place than it was yesterday. And be well, my friends. Be humble and aware. And give more than you receive, when possible. With love, gratitude, and thanks to all who’ve graced my path, and who I continue to think of daily.
Regardless of the election.
There’s a sewer pipe
in the dark, by the L.A. river
like a grave in the ground
where people sleep
by the highway, by the neighborhood
where pumpkins soon
will be replaced by
feasts of Turkey, stuffing, corn
and carefully locked doors,
then to be replaced by balsams and fern
white lights and tender eyes
of Christmas morning,
regardless of the hole by the L.A. river
where people sleep
live, and love—and pray, regardless
of the election, regardless
of the president
I still weep.
Do you?
the LA river
Looking at the LA river
now, smelling it
more than I can see it.
There’s a pigeon
down there, drinking
down there, bathing itself
in whiskey and piss—
probably blood even.
Who knows really?
It could be the purest water
in the world, but I guess
only a choice few
will get the opportunity.
While the rest of us
get coffee, Dasani
and whatever else
man feeds the birds.
Ecstasy in bloom.
Santa Monica
city street bum
sits, full lotus
thoughts rampant
running through
his charcoal beard
wild, I witness his
ecstasy in bloom.
One Philadelphia Night
I took off my clothes
my skin suit
and rattled my bones
clicked my heels
and down the hatch
I went spiraling forth
into a bleak oblivion
where not even the dark
could hide, I
stood staring into nothing like
a Mona Lisa replica
my conscience hung midair
like a wine stained sheet
pinned neatly to dry
and there were no bones about it
I had completely lost my mind
stumbling down West 4th and Pine
crossing line after line, every time
after time just me, myself, and I
delirious in my delusion
picking homeless men off the street
with tears in both our eyes
I’m no different than you my dear friend
neither are you from I, he said
you’re going to be all right, he said
as for me well, I’ve lived a storied life, he ended
with a reassuring glance as I handed him two dimes
for it was all I had
collecting my clothes
skin suit and conscience
brave the winter, he said
spring needs you
I know you know what I don’t know.
I don’t know
which crushes my spirit more,
the heroin needles
outside my apartment building
or
the line of Ray-Ban wearing tourists
waiting for brunch.
I don’t know.
I
just
don’t
know.
