Suffering Sojourns of Users - a Poem of the Streets

The addicts are restless, today.
Why, one never can tell,
with the mood swings suffered
from their drugs of choice.
They are either dancing high,
or deeply immersed in paranoia
seeking new places to use
as doors begin closing hard
against their visits by day.

Two were recently behind me
here in the Main Library,
one so tightly wound up
he could not sit still
if his life depended upon it,
while other hunkered over "fixings",
claiming to clean his backpack
but complaining about the "tar"
as he fidgeted in chair.

Others roam around the area,
raging over things as small
as one not loaning lighter
to one seeking his high,
or just mumbling while waiting,
and some get too bold
panhandling only their fellow homeless
for smokes or spare change,
too lazy to "fly" themselves.

They keep trying to wiggle
into conversations and safety packs,
awaiting their chances to poach
a conversation into some rant
about how the cops persecute
them over their bad habits.
The worst are there "shopping",
looking over your gear constantly
for something to quickly steal.

Not sure if I'll survive
with my sanity partially intact
if they keep milling around
seeking to draw me in
to embrace their strange culture
that I find so repulsive
giving me a small insight
as to how others view
my tobacco pipe from afar.

Wish there was a place
where you never need worry
about who ghosts around you,
using others for some concealment
as they do "Their Thing"
in such place often frequented
by kids seeking some joy
amid the books and media
almost as if they're recruiting.

That drive to be high,
is something I don't get.
At least not that way.
I settle for my coffee,
an occasional smoke break taken
when eyes I trust somewhat
can watch my two bags,
which is more, by far,
than these users carry around.

Most spread out about Three,
heading off to buy again,
perhaps cadge a few coins
to fund their strange hazes,
moving with no clean clothes
not caring about their appearance
as pants sag too low
and they pull shirts high,
almost off, just to scratch.

The short respite now here,
I lay this question out.
Where is this Drug War?
The little attempts I see
oft prove merely fool's gold.
During most busts around here
dozens more deals are made
within feet of the cops
busting the few they catch.

But, I cannot stand judge
over those I barely understand,
but only take some precautions
against sudden violence boiling over
or theft of my stuff
as they drift about today
without a discernible time table
for their ebbs and flows,
just sudden, annoying, bothersome sojourns.
5Feruary2014 - Dyfedd Rex, and yes, I'm suffering allergic "itch" issues after the latest. Mild, but annoying and making me cranky.

Diving Back In - A poem of Job Searching in Frustration

I have a confession to make.

Forgive me folks, for I have sinned.

Amid my determination to stand up for myself

I relented and started job searching

despite vowing months ago not to.

The real sin is not trying.

You see, tossing in the towel

was something done through my sheer disgust

at getting no where at all

these last three years of effort.

Now, don't get me wrong, folks.

I still have had enough crap

to last this homeless bum a lifetime.

But, I find to satisfy some

I must once more move mountains.

And mountains is how it seems.

Try getting a job without foundations

upon which to build back your life.

Things others take for granted daily

like homes, bank accounts, or transport. 

Some say I aim too high,

yet in the same breath berate

that I look at jobs well below

my previous levels of abilities shown,

hoping they make some small offer.

Dare I look at my emails?

Having already tossed out some resumes,

I know there might be replies there

but fear them to be rejections

from folks who don't understand me.

Already, six places have sent letters

demanding I stop applying with them.

Six places, with two others, now listed

in my little, evil, black notebook

to never do business with again.

One of those latter places lied,

another played games with my head, 

promising it was the first interview group

when they had another before it

from which they filled the position. 

I admit that for the moment

I am cherry-picking the places applied

not taking the big step down expected

for the time being at least.

But that will come soon enough.

The others? That first damning group?

Well, if you must ask indeed

it includes four firms owing me favors, 

one organization to remain unnamed forever,

and one government agency of hypocrites.

Still, for now I will try.

Once more into the breach boldly,

and all that crap from literature read.

But I still have a bet

that writing will pay off first. 

So, here I sit, nervously debating

over opening that browser this day.

Will it be good news, ill omens,

or just more of that silence

so many use as reply now?

Time to find out, before diving

once more into those job postings

on the internet while sitting so patiently

here in the sunny library section

trying to keep my hopes alive. 

30December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, hoping for better things next year. 

Commentary: Yeah, it wears on you. The constant process of application, rejection, and getting up, dusting off to try again. I do hope for better things next year, but realistically? No, things will probably stay the same. Look, after three years unemployed, many places claim I am unemployable. Despite doing volunteer work, pick up jobs and even stooping to shoveling snow on the sly to keep myself busy and in coffee and tobacco. But, despite those earlier disgusted moments, I keep going back to trying. Think about it, folks. Who would you rather have, the guy who keeps slogging on, or some super-model who looks good, but fails the test of time. Not that I have much better a record. My only redeeming quality, I feel some days, is that loyalty and pride that prevents me from looking for a job while taking another's dime, unless I'm working part time. 

    So, chide me all you want, for breaking that promise earlier this year to give up. And remember, I still think I will see money from my stories or poems well before I get another paycheck from a permanent job, but would love to be proved wrong. - D.R. 

Bad Weather and Users - A poem of the streetlife

Grey skies,
rain and cold,
these trigger the fall
not just of the leaves
but those who dance
upon razor's edge
of addictions.

Three times
the ambulance arrived
and not done yet
as the day drags slowly
and the addicts slink
looking for places
to use.

Despite gathering
of various cops
here in the library
they do their stupid stunts
like rolling joints openly
on changing tables
in restrooms.

Rattling bottles
mark the poppers,
seeking water to wash
away their minds and souls
they feel no need
to keep handy
seeking oblivion.

Spice monkeys
were all spastic
jerky motions and energy
then comes the deadly crash
as the darkness within
renders them down
into zombies.

Ether's reek
in the restrooms
tells all homeless travelers
that the tweakers are here
smoking where they please
and the hell
with others.

Bad weather
brings it out
or at least inside
where others can see it,
the self destructive impulses
that run amok
amongst users.

Yet I
still manage, somehow,
to avoid those lures
walk away from their offers
to join them awhile
get stoned, pass-out,
awaken robbed.

Drunks speak
with slurred voices
some loud, bordering obnoxious,
others quiet as church mice,
still holding a shred
of situational awareness
about cops.

All because it's raining.
10October2013 - Dyfedd Rex

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

War of Lag-trition - A poem of Gaming

I have a guilty sin,
yeah, I play video games.
And on I enjoy best
has me cussing constantly
as I die a lot now
from ugly lag spike hits.

My war of "Lag-trition"
comes at moments proving key
to the way the battle
flows and ebbs about me fast,
when that damned screen pops up
"Reconnecting to server", I sigh.

So if you play that game,
League of Legends, it is called,
have mercy on that Karma
who stands there dying often,
or runs back to our base,
It ain't all my fault these days.

Library wi-fi sucks,
with interruptions killing
my connection often,
as part of the war they wage
on the movie downloads
always clogging their system.

I die by "Lag-trition"
enforced absence foisted off
onto my game by chance
not my own intentions.
Not trying a feeder
to be, just seeking a win....
.. to get me some safe I.P.

11September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

I am Sunset's Thrall - Poem and Photos of Sunset

(more photos amid and after the poem!)

Got bit again this week

by that shutter bug virus.

It floats about in air

seeking victims to wickedly enchant

teased into her contagious embrace

by a moment so beautiful

you just cannot pass by.

This was the case Tuesday

when I headed out slow

rounded the corner to see

the sunset blaze under clouds

that already were watering me

thinking me just another blade

on the lawn down here. 

So I share some frames

caught on my beat-up camera,

a simple digital Kodak C310,

that could use tune-up

or even better a replacement.

Forgive the grains, the blurs,

She gives what she has....

... and still keeps clicking away. 

30May2013 - 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...