make your own decisions…

making your own decisions

got no angels
to
talk
to
today
just
the old man
down
the street
holding
a brown bag
talking
about
how jesus
has
saved
his soul
can’t understand
how
some
homeless
souls
can see
the wonders of heaven
among
the city’s sweepings
for
i’ve lost
such
visions
or
perhaps
best
labelled
fantasies
life
does that
to
some of us
the veneer of promises
is
stripped away
by
reality
leaving us
with
the bare
roots
of
life’s truths
but
you don’t need
to
listen
to my words
for
that
would be
another case
of
blind
belief

once we were…

once we were...

the small space
between
his nightmares
and
his reality
has grown smaller
he no longer
stares out
his window
searching for
empty promises
to be fulfilled
nor
does he pray
anymore
he has grown
to realize
that whatever god
there may be
his lot in life
is not
a priority
for that god
or
any god
so why would he
expect
that his fellow man
would give a damn
to them
he’s
a homeless bum
not worthy
of
their consideration
for anything
just scrap paper
to be
swept away
before
morning rush-hour
but once
his hands
cleared the land
that fed them
then
they called him
an essential worker
till the land dried up
and
nothing could grow
the bank took his land
outstanding loans
the land still stands naked
hometown
a ghost town
and
he
a ghost
of
society

no bed sheets…

no bed sheets

poverty’s child
alone
sleeping on a bare bed
as days
turned
into years
a man 
friendly with people
still
sleeping
on
a bare bed

 

 

santa’s true identity…

seeing
the brown bag prophet
delivering
bags of food
embossed
with
the traditional commercial image
of
santa claus
to
vets
living
in
the city’s
homeless containment camp
i decided
to poke
a little fun
at
him
i said
you know
the real santa
must
be black
in order
to be so
invisible in our society
he quickly responded
that
if santa
was
black
he’d be shot
on
the first roof
he
landed on
or
imprisoned
for
christmas cookie
and
milk theft
the prophet
then said
but
i do like your spirit
posting a rare smile
he added
although
it’s like snow in the desert
i wish for a year of peace
he did an about-face
and
returned to his task

 

the casting…

 

designed to destroy
artificial images
poured from hate’s cauldron
made from ignorance and fear
soulless asylum seekers

 

meditating on a closed homeless shelter…

 

the brown bag prophet
said
i live
in
the empty spaces
life’s
denied
moments
where eyes
avert
and
prayers
fall on deaf ears
i’m
not alone
there are
children
and
their parents
in
these spaces
parents
of
all sorts
atheists
bible thumpers
and
those confused
by
god’s words
and
his deeds
as
well
as
certified heroes
and
criminals
those ungainfully employed
and
otherwise destitute
by
their attempt
at
existence
all
forming
society’s sediment
sediment
along
these streets
paved
with human gold
and
blood diamonds
diamonds
worn
no doubt
as
symbols
of
heaven’s stars
but
more likely
as
hell’s burning embers
but
who’s to say
not those
of us
living
in
the empty spaces

 

torn pages from a dictionary…

torn pages from a ditionary

although
officially labelled
homeless
he
and
his partner
doris
live beneath
the third street bridge
and
have done so
for the past
ten years
most folks
in continuously connected
corporate housing projects
the suburbs
surrounding the bridge
are aware
of this fact
which
has apparently
and
consistently
escaped
census takers
since
no one
has taken
the time
to incorporate
their numbers
into the state’s quest
for more delegates
to
meaningless political conventions
a
true sign
of their
outcast position
in society
be that
as it may
said
homeless people
have been
strongly encouraged
to find
a home
home
as defined by some
fat dude

in city hall
who
not only
has had
new solar electric
speed monitoring signs
installed on his street
but
also
has had street lines
repainted
to conform
to his version
of
eden
in any case
he had
officers of the law
assist
with the relocation
of
homeless people
unfortunately
relocation
meant
dislodge
so
once again
the solution
is
at the expense
of
those designated
as
the beneficiaries
and
of course
runs counter
to
common sense

riverbed…

riverbed

this place
of
your disdain
has
the name
of
home
to me
my
partner
and
i
have lived here
for
quite
some time now
among
the shrubs
and
cast-off items
from
society
ourselves
included
we shared
laughter
tears
and
fears of police
but
we’ve also
spent
her last
cancer
filled hours
here
i strove
to take care of her
but
cancer
wins
all too many battles
so
now
a memorial service
on these sands
of the riverbed
that place
of
your
disdain