Celebrating Bad News Milestones

Sometimes, you just have to laugh at the bad news in your life.

Take today. Four companies who I applied for positions back in September to December just had a race to see who got to be Job Rejection #2000, emails flowing in over a 45 minute period.

And, that started me to howling in laughter. I'd left after that milestone, to pull out my January royalty money, all 4 bucks and some change, to buy an ounce of pipe tobacco to deal with reaching this dubious mark, and when I got back, lo and behold, the other three emails were there.

First, it was just a chuckle, then I lost it, and started howling with laughter, which jars many folks nerves, over this debacle.

Okay, not the sanest response. Or is it? Look, at least I'm not grabbing a hatchet and seeking fame as an ax murderer, no, I'm just trying to do my best Joker laugh, without the accompanying mayhem that villain wrecks upon society.

And, deep down, this is funny. You see, it means that jobs I was passed over on, I am still considered as the fall back guy if the ones chosen fail to prove out. This means, yes, that things are not as clear and dry as they seem on all these rejections. Yeah, I could still snap the losing streak, but does this mean things will improve? How the hell would I know? I'm just the punching bag for the economic downturn, or one of them, at least.

So, if you hear my horrid laugh, realize there is a reason. Let me alone as I smoke a pipe in the last few good hours of weather this week, and find my center again. Then, back off, and let me figure out what goal to set next. Should I offer a free ebook of my poetry to the HR flak who rejects me on time #2500? Write the next set of interview givers into a tale, complete with my equivilant of a red shirt on the original Star Trek Series? Maybe offer to never write the person who hires me into a tale or poem?

Yeah, I'm feeling quirky, after this milestone. If nothing else, at least I was considered for 2000 jobs seriously, by polite companies, as I lost track of the times I watched the resume find circular file 13 before I got out the door when dropping an application in person.

Wait, maybe the real need is to write some fool into a tale who causes job rejections. Is there a Job Rejection Fairy? Or did the Fey folk farm that out to their lesser pixie kin? Is it a goblin, or some recently evicted troll, pissed over his bridge crumbling to the point that the local code forced him out from under it?


Yep, Life gives you lemons, slice them up for mixed drink side pieces. If only I could afford some rum and coke to go with them.

Insert your own image of me sticking my tongue out while making a weird face. I'm too busy laughing to do it myself.

The Internal Debate

To go on, or just walk away, saying the hell with you all.

That is the place I am at.

After four long years of being without a job, without permanency, with only hope, I've finally hit the bottom of the barrel on that last.

Oh, I could draw down my morals, and turn to a life of crime, as many in my situation do.

I could sell my soul, and body, on some street corner.

I could just walk into a heavy flow of traffic.

But I still have my faith, not in the world, any god, or such, but in me.

But, even faith can only take one so far.

And today, the final test arrives. After this, there will be no more of YOUR way, but only MY way.

Sounds harsh, uncaring? How do you think it sounds to me, coming from a society, from people, who have not a fucking clue?

And that one cuss word should say a lot. Over the years, I try not to cuss. I'm good, really, at dancing with words to avoid it, so, realize, when I start cussing, it is usually all over, save the hollering, threats of retaliation (usually from the other side, I just warn them they don't want to push me any further these days), then the long silence.

One last try today. It better go well, for a change. I don't have anything left in the tank to keep pushing on the way folks want me to. After this, we go to my way. Or you can all keep on trucking, down your highway to hell.

More stuff being taken off blog to go into new project

Another 'words' project is coming... one that will be brutal to read, tough for me to honestly write, edit, and gather, but needs to be done. This is something a friend urged me towards this summer, and I am only ready to slam together now.

I'm calling this project: "Words from the Curbs & Under Cold Bridges", and it is a gathering of my poems and stories about being homeless,
Tonight, in one of my moments of rage and determination, I finally took that friend's advice, and started laying it out. This will not be some gritty thing to give folks hope, but one to offer a taste, and that is all you will get, a small taste, of what being homeless, jobless, and beaten down feels like. It will not win me friends, I'm sure. Some bridges already burnt during this period of my life will take further destruction, I'm betting, down to the very footings deep in murky waters that each side peered across before, and now have to try seeing through that crap filled water to repair. That is, if enough will survives on either side to do so.

Just a taste now, the opening section... of a work that will be ongoing even beyond the moment it finishes, 'cause this shit ain't over yet for me.

Every tale of woe starts somewhere. Mine started with the usual place for me. A moment of anger, being asked to lie by some corporate fool, who admitted in that same request that it would be lying, but for the good of the company. A company that stressed, until then, its ethics and standing in the world of commerce. So, I lost it, said very loudly some words discussing the requestor’s ancestry, habits, and soul’s probable destination, which lead to a request for my resignation. This started my downward spiral to the streets, an ugly chain reaction, which my temper did little to curtail. Hell, it kept pulling out the reactor control rods, draining the cooling pond, and tossing in more fissile thoughts. Yeah, in the beginning, it was all on me, apparently, as few think I should blame the screw-loose thumb-sucker who triggered it all.
Well, from there, the job hunt began, and like any other time I get pissed off, things kept going wrong, despite my best intentions. No job appeared, so, I was forced to do something drastic… This is the tale, not quite all in order, given by poems and stories I wrote along the way, on my blog, or never shared, that show how things went.
One thing, before I pass the baton to the next point in my life… I’ve seen a lot of stories online and in the mainstream media about folks who spent time homeless to understand it better. Not a single damned one of them can. You see, they all knew when their planned time on the streets would end. They never faced the real doubts, fears, anger, and frustration the REAL homeless do, day in, day out. If they wanted to wimp out, they knew home was still there, waiting for them. So, before you say “I went on the streets to see what it’s like, and I know…”, stop. Just stop. You ain’t got a clue. Few will. Unless they really went through it, with no hope of return, no fall back position to retreat to, and truly no home. All you got, at best, was a taste of the dangers, not the darkest moments, not by a damned sight. Stop fooling yourselves, and lying to others that you understand the true meaning of being homeless. You could walk home anytime… and did. The homeless don’t have that option.

Sermon’s over. Or, maybe, just beginning.

And for me, the first hints came when I had to start selling my possession to make rent. Something I’d done before, but never at the level this time around required. 

Like I said, this will be brutal. Both to read, and for me to write. But I'm tougher than you think, the real worry is are you going to be tough enough to read it, accept it, and understand it. 

20October2014 - A very pissed off Dyfedd Rex. 

"Exile's Road" headed to Kindle eBook, if I can.

So, cranking over "Exile's" today to create another choice over at Amazon to support me through...

It might be ugly, rough in spots, as I never finished the project it was to be a lead in to, and hence am cutting out the other stuff, if need be...

Yeah, I'm trying to set up some cash flow for January, about the time I'll need to re-supply, as no jobs came through, no miracles occurred, and I lost faith in others, now turning to my last few skills to see if it is time to seal the cave door behind me, or just wait out the time until I start seeing the money...

Should drop this week sometime, gods and time permitting. Time is short, and gods? well, like the Captain told the Preacher... "...that's a long wait, for a train that don't come."

Some Parting Thoughts

One last post after this one, that is all, folks, unless some miracle occurs.

So, here are some parting thoughts.

I hope those who visited more than once did so for enjoyment, not obligation, spite, or for proof the homeless are worthless. I wish more of my favorite poems had more hits, but such is the ways of the Fates, cruel wenches they are. If you want to see my best, it is called Deerboy on a Bicycle, in my opinion. A firm "Tip of my Hat" to those who read and enjoyed, spreading the word by sharing the blog. Thank you.

I'm sure many felt my "drama-queen" attitude the last few weeks was just a cry for attention, and they are right, but not as thought. The posts were to bring your attention to the fact that your Society is broken, terribly. I've been saying for the whole time I was homeless that you cannot end homelessness without giving at least those trying to rejoin your world a chance, and few gave me the chance, none offered the time it would take to repair the breach between me and your Society. Yes, YOUR Society, not mine. The one I stood up for, wearing woodland camo on one weekend a month for nine years, believed in "Justice for ALL" not Injustice to the poor, and Corruption's Rule.

Yes, Corruption's Rule, the corollary to Mob Rule, where those with influence use it to enrich themselves at the expense of the freedom, dreams, and lives of others.

So many I knew screamed about Mob Rule, and how it would destroy America, all the while using Corruption's Rule to ensure that the Mob Rule would be indeed unruly, rancorous, and tainted with crimes, to hide their own.

I was trying to get your attention to the issues, and that treating only the symptoms, not the root causes, dealing with only the "experts", not those in the situation, while trying to fix it might make things worse. And does, to be honest. You want to reduce homelessness, talk to the homeless, get their take on what road blocks are there, what they endure in getting off the streets or out of the shelters, and be supportive of them when they do, don't just forget them and move on.

Also, to those trying to help other homeless out of their situation, if they have an artistic skill, and try to use it for getting out of the pinch they are in, LET THEM! Don't decry those attempts, especially, if like me, they say it is a fall back plan, to have at least some way to earn a few coins to eke by their miserable lives on. Urging them to use it as supplementary income is okay, but do NOT block them from moving on with those skills, and trying to gain back some cash for their art.

Last, I've spoken my last bits about your messes, folks. They are your messes now, not mine. Today is the drop dead date for a job. That said, I have little faith in any appearing, and less in my ability to hold it, as part of the agreement I settled out was to hit the streets, or hills, so there is no place that is stable in my life to live from, if I were to accept one. I'd try, but without showers, laundry, and the like until that first paycheck? No, it would not be fair, to the employer, their customers, or me.

Like I said, one more to go, no more rants, no more anything really, left in me. Save two things.
Goodbye, good luck, and take one last whiff as I pass of what belongs in a pipe.

oh, and yeah, I am burning, and will keep burning via canned postings here, the rights to much of the writing I did during this last few years. I that pissed off, I'm tossing all this to the winds, forgoing the money I might have had a chance at, just to show a few people I thought were my kith and kin that I was not just sitting on my ass doing nothing. At least, not most days. Bestcase, them being right,  this was a few hundred bucks, worst case, I just burnt a few million, and fame, to show them up. Yeah, when I get pissed, the monetary loss for a little taste of vengeance, which I've held back, numerous times from taking, and they knew it, is something I will stoop to. Congrat's, people. You finally have me furious.

Skills in Doubt... A poem of Life and Belief

I have my doubts

things that crawl through my soul

seeking to chew it up

then spew it back

onto that core

of myself.

It's not my writings,

not my job skills I doubt,

but the personal relations stuff,

where I rub folks

entirely wrong ways

every time.

Fears abound around me,

about my ability to read people

to see past their faces

and read the messages

the eyes send

amid interviews.

Worse thing rise up

when out on the cold streets

as I seek out safety

and wonder who there

I can trust

these days. 

My words on screen,

or of ink upon some paper

I know convey my thoughts,

but those across tongue

wander far astray

of targets.

Only one thing left

that I truly have misgivings about,

and that is my heart,

which never chooses well,

for my safety

or sanity. 

Yes, I am flawed. 

despite the projected image I have

of always being so "right"

and not giving in

to others demands.

Very flawed.

Yet, I keep on

moving through this life under burdens

not just this time around

but all those before

that others forget

I endured. 

And held out...

winning some how...

despite the odds...

over others wishes...

through those flaws.

22September2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Amid the Amids... A Poem of the toll I've suffered.

Amid the words,
there lay hope, once.
Now scattered to the winds
as some fools attack
tossed them aside.

Amid the dreams,
I once crafted words,
to build up the hopes
others still longingly nourished
to get something.

Amid the winds,
I still will wander,
watching the world from afar
as I sit, smoking,
seeking to recover.

Amid the storms
that have battered me,
the soul still yearns comfort
as I prepare now
to walk away.

Amid that soul,
stories still beg telling,
and I fight them back
telling them to wait
until peace arrives.

Amid the chaos
others created for me,
by turning me aside, rudely,
an island of peace
still does exist.

Amid the stars,
a tale slowly builds,
so I pack writing supplies
in case it springs
out of mind.

Amid my mind,
there is nothing left.
The grind broke the will,
the spirit, weeping, fled,
to seek succor.

Amid it all,
my fingers still dance
across keys, paper, and life
seeking to keep moving
as I fade.

Amid the silence
that soon shall fall,
others wonder why I quit
not seeing the effort
and its toll.

Amid the wilderness,
where I am headed,
there are no damned fools
or so I hope,
to crush me.

Amid those trees,
lulled by whispering breezes,
I pray my soul receives
just a small recovery
from his load.

22September2014 - A weary Dyfedd Rex.

Things I'll miss on weekends = A poem of walking away

Weekends once filled
spending time with a buddy
watching the various college and pro games
now will be silent times
communing with Nature.

Saturday's ache already
as the game nights fade
lost to my situation and growing isolation
even before heading to hills
to winter over.

Sunday morning coffee
the last few warm cups
are savored before I'm reduced to instant
and have to drink cold
those lonely cups.

Friday Bar Nights,
long ago abandoned by me
will be remembered during forced abstinence soon
as I seek only stars
for my company.

Dark roads ahead,
Dangers I cannot dream of
or have and still dare those trails
that will become my home
during snowy season.

These few things,
once taken for granted weekly,
I will miss out there, under skies
dark enough to allow stars
to be companions.

Wrapping it up,
shutting down my old lives
all of them, not just homeless days
to walk away with resolution
that things will
improve once
I'm alone,
and settled
into hole
like turtle
closing shell
to hibernate
until found
by Spring
and warmth.

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

The Shelter Kid's Walk - A Story that Exposes your Shame and Failures, America

It's scary here. Mommy says stay close. Hard to do. That lady is dancing crazy, and some guys cut between us, pushing me aside.

They smoke stuff that smells bad. Some lay against the wall, sleeping or drinking things. And you have to step over legs stuck out, and miss that puke there.

Some of them are buying things. I see the money handed around, and baggies or rollies passed about. Sometimes smaller things.

Just want to get across the street, and back into the warm place. Maybe we can have a Happy Meal? Mommy shakes her head, saying "we'll see".

There is a dirty guy bent over, playing with shoe strings while giggling. He looks sick, and groans sometimes. That weird guy tries to stop me, keeping me from Mommy. His hands are all black, and his eyes are funny, all cloudy, like the air today. His reaches  to me like Daddy said he might. Told him no, and he won't stop. So I use those words, like the girl did last night, when we came here.

Mommy yells at me, mad. Wants to know where I heard that. Can't she hear them around us, talking that way? What's wrong with what I said? Everyone's using those words when saying no.

Got away, though. Why's that guy in the hat all scrunchy faced? He's right, saying I shouldn't have to walk through this. I want a home, not here. Walking to school there was further, but easy. Not so many strange people doing dumb things.

What smells? Oh! I better walk around that puddle, it's yellow. Don't he know there's a bathroom just inside the door?

The leather jacket guy is walking to that car. One less person to dodge. Wonder what he's selling them?

Why is that lady there hiding under the blanket. Everyone else smokes standing up. Smells funny, and things are spinning.

Ooo! A fight! Now two more are in the street. Are they playing? No. Wow! Even my little brother aims better than that! Ha! He missed and fell down!

Daddy grabs my hand. He caught up, and pulls me to the street. "Watch for the trains, honey."

Why is he frowning? Everyone here says yes that way.

I can't wait to get across the street. The guards keep the wild people away there.

This is the bit I actually wanted published this year, something to make America wake up and realize just what the hell is wrong with jamming all the homeless into one place. It is in no way fair to the kids. I've finally done my part, putting this out there. I saw all this, including the kids being led around it all, outside the shelter in Salt Lake City, during my time there, and in the one return after I turned to street camping to catch a bus to a free feed on New Year's Day, 2014. You have a lot to atone for, those who feel the sins of the father and mother deserve to be rained upon the children. But, that is for God to beat your asses for, not me. 

Deadlines and Dropdead dates - A commentary on my Life.

It sucks, but I have to set these again.

yeah, things are not holding up. A job offered fell through on their end, I cannot gain any traction in writing, as folks keep discouraging me from doing the eBook, if it means spending money on it to get it formatted, and then, I keep finding the guy in the mirror looking away, disgusted at how I sell my soul for some things in life, lacking the spine to say: "Take me or leave me, just do it fast."
Stop blocking my one path left for showing I have desire to make money, folks, let me move on, prepared for bad times, so they avoid me instead of lingering over my days like some conjured up thunderstorm of doom.

So, here are the deadlines.
To survive, I need a job, soon. Like, starting before September 29th.

October 1st, I'm back out on the streets, actually, into the wilderness this time, and the hell with ever coming back for another try at joining a broken society that bitches about the homeless and jobless not being productive, even as they snub them on the jobs they put in for.

On that date, if no money is coming from any source, I walk away. Period.

Ya'll wanted a five year plan? Screw that, here's a much shorter one. Give me a rope to pull myself up with, or hang by, either way, do something world. You can't, then don't bitch when you stumble across my planned hermit hole, and leave me alone, like you did when I asked for your help in being one of you, which cost me a lot, in the way of sacrificed beliefs.

14 September2014 - Dyfedd Rex of the Frayed Faith and Patience.

Next Project of Poems and Words

So, with "Words from the Pipe & Under the Hat" just needing some format work to head to e-book, I am already pondering the next such project, which I feel should have a strong reflection on the time I spent homeless the last few years. Considering telling tales amid the poems, and dealing with the issues around those stuck in the ruts of homelessness and joblessness. Working title, as I tinker with this idea, is "Tales and Verse from the Curbs & Under Various Bridges", which seems to fit, and yet not fit.

Not set in stone, or convinced it can be done in the respectful way that is needed to both convey the issues and yet give hope of resolving some of them.

Then again, who better than one who has walked in those moccasins to tell the tales and dreams of such?

Fairer Winds Blowing - A poem of better times that came at last

After the long cold,
true warmth enters my life
giving me hope of better days
as the winds of fate
shift to fairer directions.

I've done my time
of being a homeless bum
and won't need to hold signs
this winter for hot coffee
as a job came.

And that started avalanche
of change in those winds,
as they kicked me from duldrums
back onto the trade lanes
where things look hopeful.

A short story sold.
A poetry e-book almost ready
to offer for sale real soon,
and that was the flap
of Fate's butterfly wings.

Now, I steer careful.
Have the stars showing clearly
where I am, where I'm going,
and just have to remember
where I once was.

This ends one chapter
in the tale I'm living.
The one that tore me up,
beat me down to earth,
then lifted me up.

There are friends waiting,
ones still needing that hand,
like I once did, during this.
Folks I need to thank
when I get chance.

Including my readers here.
For lifting my spirits up,
for keeping my passions burning bright,
and most of all believing
in a homeless bum.

I'm free of it,
others are not, so remember
when you pass some worn panhandler,
this poet has been there,
and asks most kindly
that you not
ignore them,
insult them,
but give them hope.

Like you did me.
17August2014 - Dyfedd Rex, Riding some good waves and winds, headed.... to a home.

Keep That Pack On, Son. - A poem of the Streets.

Part of being on the streets,
is accepting the darkness of souls.
Not just of others, but yourself too.
Such is not easy, nor truly safe.
A person who gazes upon darkness
without the safety of distance
too oft finds themselves embracing such.

This is true of all, even me.
Here on the streets, my prejudices rise.
Allergies explain just a bit of it,
leading to my disdain for drug addicts,
even as I feed my own dependence
on coffee, colas, and nicotine.
Things I view as far safer.

That gloom that lies on the Homeless,
much of it is fed from without,
but nearly as much rises inside you
as you begin to doubt yourself,
your skills, your beliefs, and lose the way
that you have walked for so long.
The demons of the street are many.

Have I been tempted to crime?
Yes.
But I steer clear of most of it,
save the occasional early morning jaywalk,
to reach a restroom before suffering
the indignity of a public relief.
And other things call too.

Here is a thought, though, for fools
who mock those who walk the streets.
You are but one mistake from joining us.
And we, each of us, but one right decision
from being heroes to someone.
Like that kid this morning I passed,
under my full load of packs.

He took back his own from his dad,
and said rather proudly and loudly...
"he's got more, and still goes on, Dad.
So I should carry mine too."
Left a smile on my face.
Put a pep in my stride, beyond pride.
I had to hold up my end.

Which is what Life is really about.
9 June 2014 - A humbled Dyfedd Rex.

Dangers in Spring's Arrival - Poem of the Streets

The prowlers move around early,
looking for places to hide away
to sleep off the unavoidable crashes
their nights of being high evoke.

I see them, each morning
as I descend from my camp.
They make few efforts to hide
some even crashing on sidewalks.

With the beds cut back
at the shelter, as every summer,
the addicts seek other places now
to use and then recover.

Or perhaps, to fade away.

The streets are more dangerous,
campsites stolen or pushed each night
as their funds run out finally
from these long, foolish binges.

But, seeking that next high,
they now prey upon others slowly.
The rates will climb until turning
of the calendar's pages comes.

Leaving me at higher risk,
being allergic to things they smoke,
and very aware of who's moving
around places I frequent regularly.

I'd rather keep my possessions.

We all are getting edgy.
Tempers fray more easily these days,
tattered by this incursion of evil,
flowing more from Hell's Block.

Darkness carries voices more often
than the winter nights passing held.
Darkness gives their crimes some cover
from eyes of the Law.

The city changes from safe,
to just an annex of Hell,
demonic druggies dancing amid imaginary flames
their substance abuse conjures forth

which leaves them all insane.

Patterns must change each night,
you dare not fall into routines
that they can predict when moving
lest you become their prey.

Sober hands hold gear tight,
Clear minds make eyes dart about
not from paranoia, just some caution
for the shadows have occupants.

Not all movements there hold
danger to me or other travelers,
but, heed my advice, night's wanderers.
Never flash your cash openly

for the druggies are back
and they drive summer's crimes.

11April2014 - Dyfedd Rex

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.

Seasonal Exodus.- A Poem of the Streets and Homelessness.

With the warmer nights
the great exodus beings,
as the braver souls
come out of Shelters
seeking peace from noises,
and places violence free
to spend a night
under the starry skies
amid Spring's welcome return.

Each spring it happens
and not as stated,
but driven by beds
reduced to certain populations
as they try consolidating
the folks to places
where the services are
more easily accessed daily,
shunting some to streets.

Not all are troubled,
not all seek crime.
While many do bring
the substance abuse problems
with them each night,
a few are refugees
from the troubled areas
surrounding the homeless shelters,
wanting a hidey-hole.

We who dared elements
during the Winter's duration
now find our places
pushed by varying folks.
Some we might tolerate
if they just asked
instead of invading camps
demanding we let them
take them over now.

So it will go,
the war of vagabonds,
as the summer arrives
it will get worse.
All we can do
is hold the line
and pray the worst
head some place else
besides our sleeping places.

Some we welcome returning,
Drifters passing back by
who we know well,
or those weather forced
into the shelters warmth
due to health issues,
or just the weariness
the streets grind us
with each passing day.

Myself, I will resign
myself to hearing snores
as two per camp
means one more chance
to hear the approach
of evil intended feet
sneaking up to steal
your gear to fund
a drug addict's binge.

So, good-bye sound sleep,
it's been somewhat nice,
but the season changed
when you slept in,
and now the lurkers
will wander about town
seeking new, fresh prey
or old familiar faces
to hunt each night.

7April2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Silence of the Spring-time - A Poem of the Streets in Springtime.

Silence of the Spring-time

I fall silent often these days.
Not from depression, nor enough work
to lift my spirits above clouds,
but from contemplation and weather issues
that force me to spend time
drying gear out from April's Showers
to avoid dread May's Mildew doom.

Add in the few odd jobs
that leave me totally exhausted after
and the days when allergies call
with their nasty calling cards loudly,
and I ain't too damned social suddenly.
Nor does the good weather improve
my attitude at all as druggies
wander away from the shelter wildly.

This is the bad days now,
when the war so long confined
down around Hell's Block spreads out
as the worst now seek places
to do drugs, crimes, and such
amid the hiding holes of campers
who want nothing with their crap
but are forced to surrender now.

Worst, I did some eaves-dropping recently,
on a meeting about "Homeless Solutions",
and folks who bloody attended that
need to realize one important point.
Hiding things under some magic carpet
don't qualify in any damned way
as meeting the definition of "Solution".
I even checked dictionaries on that.

So, my travails and issues continue,
but at least I still write,
thought not things I will share
here for all to read often.
After all, I do plan to sell
some of these stories some day,
and you cannot say I don't
need the money that might bring.

Be well, walk safe, and enjoy.
Spring is here, and folks rejoice.
But not all find it good.
Some see it as the end
of quieter days and nights spent
without many of the dangers prowling
and now walk and act furtively
as we wander these lonely streets.

Walk softly, and be paranoid, folks.
7April2014 - Dyfedd Rex

The Troubles Spread Now - A Poem of Warning and the Streets.

Spring's first thunder
rumbles out from Hell's Block
as the fools boil out like roaches
bringing their crimes, drugs, violence
back to streets.

With warmer weather
the troubles spread from there.
The druggies get kicked out more
from the Road Home Shelter
after Winter's tolerance.

Already the campers
speak of camps being "pushed",
thin-packed shadows every entering sites nightly,
and fights and issues arising
well before dawn.

Know it's true.
My site is borderline now,
as I had to rise from bedroll
when the predators came calling
more than once.

Each warm day,
evil tendrils slither further afield
yet the echoes from those still in
speak of continued drug use
openly inside shelters.

Brazen thieves roam
those areas again by night
and even during times once deemed safer,
heard of one guy stealing
coffee from packs.

Bold and fearless,
thinking we live in fear,
not seeing the growing amount of "steel"
on belts of we elders
as we walk.

Count those knives,
count cell phones in hand
as we move about even by day,
and you know the tensions
are boiling over.

No safe place,
save the libraries by day.
And that only as cops patrol hard
and security finally clamps down
on worst offenders.

The staff's attitudes
now sour the good ones
as things approach the annual "turn-out",
coming near April's Fools Day,
When beds reduce.

Hear the complaints
as the older guys talk,
about the nightly fights, open drug use,
and constant wandering of thieves
seeking weak moments.

Glad I'm out,
not stuck in that mess,
but worry the troubles will come haunting
the places I hide in
stealing my peace.

Watching the signs,
I fear needing to head
into the hills again these spring nights
taking the most determined predators
on long walks.
behind me,
nightly.

Hell's Block expands
And I know
it's gonna get much worse
before things improve.

24February2014 - Dyfedd Rex, growing eyes painfully in the back of his head.

Hints of Summer's Plague - A Poem of the Streets

The storm is coming.
That annual boiling out
of the most troubled hard-cases
away from Hell's Block.

Warm weather calls them,
luring them further out by day
tricking them with tolerable
nights to wander now.

Each spring it happens,
and we campers fear the dark plague
marked by crimes the addicts oft do
and we get blamed for.

Winter's deep cold helped
keep the disaster contained tight
around the shelter area
for most that season.

Already the worst
walk the streets by night, hunting prey.
Seeking careless to rob or mooch,
sidling up slyly.

My spot gets visits
each night now, from those shadowy
figures marked by empty backpacks
that speak their hunger.

They steal to get high,
addictions driving reason off
and no one is safe from fingers
that even dip friends.

Some head for high ground,
others disappear from the town
as those questors radiate out from
the place called Hell's Block.

We hear the rumors,
tales of the fools setting up sites
around the shelter to hide in
as they do their drugs.

Warnings from the guys
speak of worse things brewing inside
ready to squirt across the vale
as the low temps rise.

Beware, ye brave souls
who feel the town is your kingdom
for the den of theives sends them out
shutting half their beds.

Each spring, this happens,
each summer indignantly folks
cry their city is invaded
by the homeless bums.

But, they never left.
Only hid out the worst few weeks
that winter tossed at this city
then slither back out.

Seven hundred souls,
that is the count inside most nights
of men alone as I can recall,
in Winter's hard moons.

Now, they roll away
from the hole they have near destroyed
to seek new game to take toll on
and you might be next.

Walk with extra care,
you citizens of good standing
for the criminals slowly creep
out by night to hunt.

No care of target
they seek their next high or low fix,
or profit off unsuspecting
who don't see them there.

The campers take care
moving more furitively now,
knowing the first wolves wander nights,
and the pack follows.

You don't sleep that well
when the predators roam the nights,
knowing you could be the next one
whose hole they sneak in.

Already, we see
the 'tracks' of this pestilence
by torn open packs scattered round
and injured campers.

I walk soft these days,
and 'steel' once more lies on my belt.
I gaze at the forbidden hills
gauging the moment.

Soon, I will head up.
No question this year about that.
Not willing to be exposed now
to their drugs and crimes.

19February2014 - Dyfedd Rex