Taking Other Paths - A poem of perseverance.

Energy surges,

crackling power chords

dancing in grey matter,

as the tales begin rising

back from their long hiatus

to fill my head

and hopefully pages

with words.

Clouds loom,

dark and hateful,

all around my path

as I walk the trails

designated for me by Fates

who desired my downfall

for some reason

beyond me.

Others scoff, 

find me foolish

for trying this path

which started to work before

they hauled me back down

to their murky streets

claiming I was 

being insane. 

And now?

Having proved it,

that your society turned

its back upon me firmly?
No, they still cannot see

that I must try

some other road

to survive. 

Sparks kindle,

daring against darkness

as the ideas catch

amid the creative tinder pile

I jokingly call my mind

and tongues of flames

marked by words

beckon me.

Chasing dreams?

Perhaps you're right.

But, given the failures

at landing a normal job,

would you not truly say

that I did that

following your paths

to failure?

Four years,

trying to gain

a regular job again

all for naught to now

and still no hint comes

of when it ends

so I turn

back again.

Dusting off

the keys again,

settling the face into 

that grim, go away look

to keep the distractions down

and unleash uncouth side

to drive away

the distractions.

Parting ways,

I can see

coming soon for many

who will turn away again,

as I lay aside resumes

and pick up pen,

paper, and hope,

to write.

Damn you, 

if you chide

me for trying this,

for I have nothing left

to try on your paths,

but must walk mine,

alone if needed,

for now. 

Last bits

of wrapping up 

the old, wasted ways

of the man now dying

amid phoenix flames of rebirth

as Dave passes away

amid Dyfedd's rise

from ashes.

Or not, 

as the pipe

will sit cold, now.

No tobacco, no coffee left,

just the man and dreams

battling over the keyboard

for some tale

to come.

Despite it all,

I still have hope.

You ain't broken my will.

Just made me look

to another path

to walk. 

28February2015 - Dyfedd Rex

Commentary I wanted attached to "The Shelter Kid's Walk"

Hi. I'm Dave, and I'm homeless, jobless, and not seeing an end to it soon. But this is not about me.
This is about the things being this way have opened my eyes to, issues we as a Society need to unite to fix. Left and Right, Democrat or Republican, set those labels aside, folks. This is about being good people, honest stewards seeking prosperity for our posterity. Not just the ones we created, but the kids of those around us.

The worst part of being homeless is not lacking shelter, the ever present threat of death, the fear of being robbed, or any other. At least not among the ones I know best.

We look at a certain street here in Salt Lake City, Utah, and say this: "Who concocted up this damned fool idea". But, as the homeless are only represented by proxies, often self-appointed folks who either knew homeless people or suffered a stint themselves, or just well-meaning do-gooders who only see actions they take, not the results, this never seems to percolate out to the rest of you.

Those who have visited or know Salt Lake probably have heard the tales and warnings about the place I have come to call "Hell's Block", the area where much of the homeless services are concentrated, around the Road Home Shelter, the Bishop Weigand Center. and the St. Vincent's chow hall. South Rio Grande Street, the 200 block. Also known as "Crack Alley", even though now the use of this new "synthetic marijuana" called on the streets "Spice" or "Spizzle", has taken over that area's addiction issues.

The problem? Simple. That concentration of troubles on that street draws the worst there as well to offer the dark side of homelessness. Addicts, dealers, and all the other issues like street prostitution, theft, and violence, right at the door to the shelter used by, yes, families with kids.

And to make matters worse, during the winter months, that chow hall doubles at night as the "Drunk Tank", to give some shelter to those of the homeless who get too intoxicated for admission into the shelter itself. So early evenings and first thing in the morning, all the problems of addiction and crime seem to be right there, for those families and kids to weave through as they seek aid, try to get to school, or just come in or out that door after a day away from "Hell's Block".

How bad is it for these families in the "Emergency Overflow" and "Intake" process that are housed there? Let me give you a sample, from my very own eyes, and guided in noting everything by one of the drunks, a guy who I call a friend, who is just as outraged at it. Yes, some of the drunks hate having the kids exposed to it, and think this is an abomination before God.

New Year's morning, we headed down there, to catch a ride to one of the churches that provides a day long meal gathering to aid the homeless, as most of the services there, including the chow hall, don't function on some holidays. That bus picked folks going there up in the worst place of all to wait. On the spit covered sidewalks of the east side of Rio Grande, across that lane, and it really is that when you consider the amount of jaywalking foot traffic, street using pedestrians trying to avoid the clusters around those selling and using drugs, and the fights that boil off the sidewalks onto the arena floor of that paved way.

Right at their door, to either side, lay those either too stoned to stand or unconscious from their usage. flopped out on the sidewalk, which, though wide, gets very narrow due to the press of folks there all day, seeking free hand-outs or just waiting to get back into the shelter or tank. In the quarter of a block (and blocks, for those not familiar with Salt Lake, are a bit longer than normal cities here) they must weave through five more clusters of the upright and prone users and dealers, all while avoiding one of the female homeless who is doing a near stripper walk (sans disrobing, but she busted all the pole dancer moves) seeking to sell her body for a share of a high, or one of her own, I could not determine which. Then there was the small turf war over who got to sell on that side of the street, and the fights evoked from those who had yet to pay for some high or another. Again, was that a dealer, or fellow user he argued with, as they drifted into the street posturing for a fight?

That was just to get to the cross walk, often ignored by those who turn onto Rio Grande headed south, where accidents are fairly common. Once across, you have two mobile addicts doing various searches for "snipes", butts of cigarettes and joints tossed aside once used, for that little bit of a free high or smoke those provide, one guy doing the "tweaker", or meth-head, "Spin-cycle" gyrations, and another bent over as if touching his toes, but unable to decide if what he sees is real, wrapped deep in the hallucinations and mini-seizure twitches that mark users of spice. All this while walking through what I have termed "The Drog" a narcotic smog, that permeates that air there nearly all hours of the day, save the most bitter or stormiest. Just to get on a bus to a free feed.

They have to deal with this every damned day. Even to get the kids on the school buses, to head the three long blocks to the free clinic for help, cross the street and back from the Weigand Center for other aids provided there, such as vouchers for clothes, transit passes and the like, or just get them out to some where else to play. An atmosphere so foul, in language, aromas of filthy people who have not washed clothes or selves in weeks, vomit, the smokes of all sort, the normal inversion smog most of the valley floor deals

From the Warzone called the Streets.

I refuse to let folks have a pass on some things, these days.

Last week, Salt Lake City held a little "Homeless Solutions Conference", and where I usually sit at the library (where it was held) gave me a bit of a sideline seat, one that offered insight into issues of why these folks are so freaking clueless, so many times, about the real issues and how to seek answers.

I won't reiterate what I said on my rant blog, just advise folks to follow this link to it.

http://privislandkingdom.blogspot.com/2014/04/sweeping-things-under-rug-aint.html

Give me a few tries to make it work right, I am not an expert at linking, activism and all that crap, but....

When all it takes for Evil to triumph.... well, you know the rest of the quote, and I do view myself as a bad man with good intentions at least.. So, call me a Good Man, and realize, while I may not walk into such a meeting and unload both barrels, I do listen in, eavesdrop sinfully, if you must say it, and refuse to let somethings slide, when it's obvious you seek the "hide it under the carpet" approach, rather than seek a true resolution that might reduce the problem significantly.

Chalk it up to my allergies, if you must, but I must also make another quote, to warn folks I won't back down anymore, if pushed....

"No more running...I aim to misbehave." - Malcolm Reynolds, Captain of the Firefly class transport "Serenity" in the film of the same name.

The Drug Storm Rolls On Around Us All - A poem of the streets, even yours perhaps.

I've heard a lot lately.
Rumbles from Hell's Block,
Whispers from City Creek
and warbling cries on streets.
But this morning's eavesdrop
gave me a clue it is indeed
as bad as those trapped
down on Rio Grande say.

Went in to the Sev,
noted freshly broken tank lid
on the throne I borrowed
to avoid a Public U violation.
Commenting to the clerks
they told me the story
of the guy who danced in
and back out too often.

But the real horror here,
is what else he did
leaving his junkie needles,
called points by many street-folk,
on the phone booth outside,
in the trashcan inside
and guess why the porcelain broke?
Yep, even in there, I guess.

Some folks in Outreach admit
it will only get worse now
as funding is up in air
and volunteers leave them
short-handed during the busy season
as the druggies and drunks
turn to rehab to stay warm
until their next big relapse.

Seen evidence all around,
like yesterday morning at CandC
where two camped on the sidewalk
at the corner of State and 4th south
waking up to panhandle
their fellow homeless,
as no one else was about
or yell at passing cars.

Ether and dog crap smells
rule the Library restrooms
and there is no safe place
to escape things I want to avoid
due to my allergic reactions
to the recreational chems of others.
The guards here try their best
but are totally outnumbered.

Skunky odors warn me off
from the smoker's corner
far too often here of late,
as the dopers return in droves
from the camps and hideaways
to hold hands out during give-aways.
Mouth wash smell spells dangers
as some drunks sink that low.

Seen soap dispenser spigots
broken off and used for rocks
last winter and early spring,
so I wonder what destruction
this coming cold season carries
as it wraps around the mountains
in clouds as bleak and ominous
as the mood I now am in.

Tweakers jitter about nervously,
who knows which cocktail
sets off their rapid pacings
and mutters of obscenities.
Some sit slumped over,
victims of the near seizure
the hand sanitizer drinkers
call their precious highs.

Every where I look these days
I see the signs of abuse
and the toll on those using
as well as the society around.
Not to mention the devastation
I'm sure their families suffer
worried about their lost sheep
but not enough to really act.

Over the last two years
I've seen it getting worse.
When I first went homeless
the hills held only the drunks
and occasional stoner camps
they always had in past,
but now, more dangerous breeds
are moving around the streets.

They prey upon society
hunt out those who won't share
the highs, lows and money
they seem to always need.
They trash the caches used
by those not among their ilk
and ruin it for those of us
who have not managed escape.

Welcome to your dark underbelly,
oh you of Society's prudes.
The very ones preaching like you
are the ones using narcotics,
abusing booze and prescriptions,
and experimenting dangerously
with household cleaning products
to find the face of God.

25September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Call of the Elephant - A poem of anger management gone to ego inflation.

Mom will probably invoke
that dreaded Rule One
as the towers rise
in the sky above
tempting me to dance.

The Elephant stalks today
calling me to cavort,
with black clouds rising
over the mountain ranges
yet to drift near.

Do those thunderheads soar
in response to moods
I feel down here?
Or is my anger
fueled by resonating rumbles?

Above me they rise,
like angry gods' fists,
as air spirits toss
their spite to mortals,
and occassionally, the Finger.

I feel their call,
to dance under anvils
where Thor's hammer falls
and lightning races beneath,
something I've always known.

Am I so powerful?
To raise those tempests?
Or is that vanity,
twisting me around wickedly
on her fickle fingers?

I need those storms
to break across me,
cleansing my soul again
of worry and stress,
leaving my slate clean.

But I know not,
even deep within me,
if I call them,
or they beckon me
to a doom fore-ordained.

Watching, I feel turbulence,
not just amid atmosphere,
but that dark place
others still have hearts,
calling out in anger.

Break, oh might storm,
let that old beast
flick his tail now,
towards me or away
that I may know....
... is it just me, or real?

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex between lines of boomers forming still.

Poking holes in Philosophy

Wandering the Wilderness
above the valley sprawl
I take a deep breath
ground, center and all that crap
after dealing with some fools
whose mouths were better
when left shut.

Like starving leeches
they came into conversations
seeking to draw their points bold
by spouting off ideas that fail
logical and coherence tests
with blind abandon.

Our only defense
is dropping smart bombs
loaded with thought and knowledge
and let go the hilt
Poking holes in Philosophies
only imbeciles follow.

When the retreat
we sigh in relief
then laugh at things unleashed
from the mouths of fools
and the parries used
driving them away.

To this day
one stands out loud
for foot in mouth crimes
like "Assault with Intellectual Vocabulary"
and my personal favorite
someone "posthumously pontificating".

So I inhale
and listen to birds
wiser creatures than most credit
for while they chatter constantly,
they stick to subjects
they actually know.

(2Jun2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

yes, you will meet strange folks when on the street/in shelters. Not all have coherent thought processes.

Drive-by Flamers in Upside-down Beemers - a poem about flame tossers

Background: So, there was this person who flamed and flounced on a writing group I have an association with... and reading some of the comments, I realized I missed some great groans and laughs as it went down on the sidelines and I missed it... until the "Strike Three" call was issued....
This was my take on the way it may have went, from the banter I entered into.... and if the person who flounced don't like it, tough... unlike the others, being homeless has given me asbestos boxers (okay, I wear jockey styles, but still....) so blast away.

From the shady internet alleys
their fiery projectiles of words fly
as they duck silently in
only to flee faster yet
tipping over the virtual wheels
as they take the exit
way above the posting speed
and trash their imaginary Beemer
(the real one already upside-down)
into the guardrails of etiquette
of the boards they defile
as they do their drive-by's
to deflate other folks' egos
with hateful and inappropriate posts
while impersonating folks with skills
they never demonstrate bits of
despite pumping their own press
thinking the bigger the balloon
the better their chances are,
not seeing the flames igniting
the cattle by-product they sling
nor the fall to come
over Polite Discourse's steep cliff.
Leave your own requiem, please.
(22Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Insanity Icing on the Nastycake - A poem about the work of Trolls

She bakes it with care making sure only the worst ingredients
are added to the mixture she stirs
seeking the right amount of venom
to poison her intended target.

Baking takes just a nudge
to bring the flames up quick
letting the batter threateningly rise up
and seek to splatter every soul
with its taint of evil.

Removing swiftly lest it fall
in under its own stupidity's weight
she makes a few last venomous posts
frosting it thick with Insanity's Icing
before erasing footsteps in vain.

But the flour of malice
and spices of hatred do betray
all who bake up such a Nastycake
as evidence of her efforts finds
the light of day somehow.

But still the crumbs left
on the serving platter turn stomachs
as the bile spewed out for havoc
fills the air with foul smells
that even deletion cannot mask.

Beware, oh taster of forums
readers of reviews and other texts
lest someone slip you a slice
of their Nastycake with Insanity Icing
infecting you with their hate.

(23Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Sunning in Plaza of Winter

I sit here now
basking in the warm rays
wondering if this is the life
sipping soda time to time
as muscles slowly unclench.

It feels damned good
this lazy moment I steal
sunning in the Plaza of Winter
surrounded by remnant snow piles
below the Wind's line.

It's not Summer's Plaza
at least not right now
no, the trees are bare branched
and everyone so bundled up
not like weeks ago.

Then there were more
who sat here waiting patiently
for the library's doors to open
soaking in the weekend sun
laughing and happy folks.

But Winter came finally
his cold cloak of fogs
driving them away or into shells
that hide the warm smiles
until they break through.

Despite the chilly air
I roll up my sleeves
tip back my hat with care
leaning against this big pile
that is my wealth.

Deep breaths slowly taken
shivering at scraps of chill
as scud clouds announce another storm
fueled by this short warming
ending my short rest.

Yet I tarry longer
denying the inevitable its moment
sucking in a few last rays
storing them for later release
huddled under Winter's blanket.

As the temperature drops
the other brave souls flee
seeking shelter elsewhere to warm in
as I gather my gear
still waiting to depart.

The smell of precipitation
may be in the air
filling my nose with its softness
and that little tongue zinger
that marks snow's coming.

A simple break occurs
letting down a few minutes
of Winter's cold sunshine to warm
this lost soul who wanders
before he forts up.

At last I leave
steps reluctant as I go
wondering when the next heat wave
will let me sit out
on the Plaza again.

(15 JAN 2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Well, after the long dry spell caused by a frozen to death power supply (yep, they really mean you should not expose a laptop to sub-freezing conditions), I am back at it again. This poem, and several more to come, came about during the lack of communications and digital preservation. Enjoy them as you wish folks...