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.

When Inspiration Naps - A poem of my Writing Issues.

Writing is the path,
but the waiting really sucks.
You wait for answers,
wait for feedback on tales,
and worst of all
you wait for good days.

Words still flow out,
just not as well anymore,
part of life's travails
pressing the source with plugs
that prevents the fingers
from dancing over the keyboard.

But still I try,
I crank out things slower.
Find myself thinking longer
before letting ideas fly out
onto the world's screens,
or off to distant in-boxes.

I try to resist
urges to sorely hurt characters
who fall silent suddenly
or just turn overly needy
of some words left
about their trails followed now.

But, in the end
the words finally come out,
slowly, fitfully, between smokes,
not clean and crisp works,
just things requiring edits,
done by chainsaw and belt-sander.

Ya just gotta persevere,
I tell myself, planting butt
into any available chair
and forcing the tale forward
even as I know
this ain't the home run...
but at least it's something.
29June2014 - Dyfedd Rex, cranky at how a certain half-elven hunter of men is turning rather.... talkative but not about his story. I want the Predator tale, not how you drove the Vampires of Dhibt's ruling class insane with hate.

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.

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

update from the cold streets

I hear the complaints, not just about the weather, but conditions down on Hell's Block, as I call the area, just north of the old Rio Grande Station, and south of the Gateway Shopping Mall.
Sandwiched in there, lies the Road Home Shelter, St. Vincent dePaul's and the Weigan Center. Where all the homeless get herded, by cops so burnt out from dealing with the druggies they don't care that concentrating the population that way worsens the situation.

Today, many told me to stay the hell out, find some hole up in the foothills or somewhere else, to hide from it all. They talked about the roaming of the 'shoppers', those tweaked out on drugs so tightly, they cannot sleep at night, just roam about the insides of those places, seeking something to steal to fund that next high. Or of the ones that still kept seeking that high, smoking away inside the building, even in the dorms, not just the halls and bathrooms.

This is why I hide away. With my allergies, I'd be committing suicide going in that place. Even the worst of the regular crowd walk in fear of which of these drug-addicts will snap first, or next as some say some have, and which innocent by-stander or guy in the next bunk will be the victim of their violence.

Hell's Block, made with good intentions, the same as pave the road to the Infernal Gates, is not a good place, so stop trying to force me there, folks. I'd rather not be forced into filing charges of attempted murder against those agitating for such a move. Given the massive number of nights I had to walk out of there last winter, covered in hives, itching with troubles breathing, I'd say one night would send me to hell this time around.

If only those trying to do good with that place would look at the effect it has on the victims it racks up each year, day by day, and seek another way, maybe it might work. The ones I feel the worst for are the kids forced in there the first few nights their families are homeless, until they get a place in the family shelter or emergency housing. Why expose children to that? What the dickens were you all thinking about, given the number of pedophiles, rapists, criminals, mentally disturbed, and addicts circling like vultures, seeking new prey. Let alone the dealers, street fences and thieves.

The words of the victims down there, those seeking to get out, but held up by some portion of the Rule of Law so many here tout, tell a grim story. Open your  ears, folks. It ain't all roses and teddybears down there.

Free Showers? - A Poem from the Streets

Free showers.
That's all it is,
but the guys avoid
them like the plague
hiding fast.

Many need
that water's wash
to rinse away stink
from weeks without
a shower.

Some more so,
like that one guy
who ain't cleaned up for
at least a month
since leaving.

Oh, the rain falls down
and we all scatter
to avoid being
cleaned of sins and smells,
despite our strong needs.

It's still warm,
so no big threat
of freezing to death,
falling apart,
or jail time.

Still they run,
fools they remain
to evade the drops
falling from sky
like blessings.

Such a mess
we live this way,
cherishing the stench
of being thus,
just homeless.

Oh, the rain falls down
and they race about
seeking cover quick
to keep smelling bad
out of some weird pride.

Aromas
that speak our tales
about drugs we use,
tobacco we smoke,
or booze drunk
furtively.

Only I
stay out in it,
relishing the drops
that rinse my soul clean
as well my gear,
so I hope.

While others
stay under roofs
dry and still smelly,
I walk about
in the rain.

Oh, the rain falls down,
forcing the scatter
to places dry and warm
where some hold on tight
to their sole comfort...
...the homeless odor.

11September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Wrestling with Characters

A continual bane of my writing life is that I have characters who are used to getting their way, unless I am in a really crappy mood and run them through the wringer of heartbreak and written pain. They walk up to where ever I have set up to write, and talk about any damned tale they wish to. Rarely the one I am working on.

This makes me one hell of a slow writer. Often forced to use the above tortures on characters, then edit them out as I go to get them back on track. Unfortunately, my characters, I have learned, tend to exaggerate if not outright lie, about events in their life. Keeping that from floating through is even a bigger pain.

So, while I may not do a daily story, chapter or whatever, at least I give it a good shot on what is working. Characters permitting.

Speaking of characters... Billenius just sat down, but I do not have the time to make him a cup of tea, gotta pack up for the early evening, then beat him down later for another fib and big omission he pulled a while back.

Rebellious Characters - A poem of writing

Even before anyone read it
I knew I would have to edit.
so I broke out the ol' chainsaw
and proceeded to lay down the law.

The characters rebelled once more
telling me the tale was a bore
demanding to go back via Hell
until I wrote something to sell.

Angered by their snide comments
I engaged weapons of governments
flooded them with paperwork
in the parts of my skull they lurk.

Their revenge came last night,
sitting around griping under moonlight
about the lack of fire and food
leaving me in a really foul mood.

Now I plot out revenge most foul
running ideas past a stray owl
as pen scrawls out chicken scratches
that will be fodder later for matches.

Yes, the night was a total loss,
as we fought over who the Hell's boss.
I still ain't sure who won this round,
waiting for that coin toss to reach ground.

This is my current nightmare,
shared for others to beware.
Characters are needy little brats
when you try to have chats.

26April2013 - Dyfedd Rex

"The Drog" - a poem of homeless life amid the haze left in Junkies wake.

It forms in many places
and has so many flavors
each place scented out differently
as the sun lowers down
and the moisture grows thick
combining with the various narcotics
to form the dreaded "Drog"
a narcotic laced pollution cloud
that surrounds certain places now.

I hate that it exists
and I must navigate it
seeking eddies of untainted airs
to move within until crossing
the smoky rapids and roils
seeking a narrow safe strait
where I can pass by
and remain untainted to tests
that employers and others administer.

Drug and Fog like smog
gathered up where I live
not by choice but circumstance
condemned to it by lack
of gainful employment and funds
something I will not miss
once I leave this place
but am sure to find
another flavor of out there.

Sometimes the pot is heavier
others its "Spice" or "Spizzle"
crack taints the air also
or some nights its meth
that seeks to gather all
into their deadly, dark embrace
condemning us all to Hell
of guilt by mere association
having breathed the tainted air.

This is the total truth
it will always be around
not that I wish that,
and will never be dispersed
by any gale or hurricane
for longer than the moments
until the junkies light up
seeking another rush after disaster
or just to pass time.

The Drog is my bane
and that of many others
curse we live amid reluctantly
and something that clings foully
like lice or other infestations
amid the homeless and yet
not just an affliction limited
to we transients any more
but feed by damned addicts.

Holding breath, I forge ahead
seeking to get safely inside
not that such improves things
for Clean Air Acts fail
to anticipate the potheads behavior
in which that single toke
even if inside a building
is more important by far
than the breath others take.

(4May2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Naughty, Naked, Nuclear Ninja-Nuns! - A poem inspired by a conversation with others

In the darkness the Evil thrived
Hiding amid the clouds of confusion
Raising all Hell over minor issues
Playing havoc with our internal politics
Until the Gods of Last Resort
Unleash their instruments of Sanity Redemption
(or perhaps Tools of Sanity Breaking).

Dancing across the posts amid electrons
Race Naughty, Naked, Nuclear Ninja-Nuns
With those deadly green atomic rulers
crafted with wily intentions for this
the tactical smiting of all asshats
who disrupt the flow of conversations
as dictated by Political Crotchety Fascist.

They leap and bound with joy
happy to be free to punish all
blazing measuring sticks just verdant blurs
as they seek knuckles to rap
or butts to swiftly smack hard
until once more chained amid clouds
behind our teary eyes and shame.

Winds of change will always blow
but deep inside we all harbor
demons in whimples and nothing else
to prance about with whistling sticks
all from stray words dropped here
that stir strange images within minds
made of slime and other media.
(28Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Thanks to those who stuck these images into my head! Terri, Elysa and anyone else who tolerates me on the Authors Helping Authors group on Facebook.
But they can only take credit for the images, not the slime that came out of my head via fingers and keyboard... blame me for any psychological or psychic damages incurred.

Where do you get the monster hit PR jobs from.... a questioning rant

So, how do they do it? Those megastars who get somebody to flip out for their work, and do an homage online to the artist they love, how do they get this to happen?

Is it just the nobody seeking fame, fortune, attention or just goofing off?

Thankfully, I will only have my small audience, it seems, and never have to be accused of going to hell (which I will, by the way... I never keep kosher in my diet as bacon cheeseburgers scream for me to devour them, lust after women, forget mom on mother's day and her birthday until the day after... lots of reasons there). I don't have young women swooning over my looks or "yumminess" (except after eating beans all day, when everyone downwind passes out, regardless of sex). Its great... its freedom from the pains of the burden of the highborn fools to entertain the masses. I just entertain myself and a small circle of friends.

I guess the real question is the eternal one.... Why? I mean, why make a fool of yourself over some celeberity, go online, make videos for or against them, just feeding the egos.....
wait.... Ohhhhhh, I see, its all from Madison Avenue, ain't it?

These things are all driven by the suits on that drive, and other insane folks who feel we all have to watch our image every minute of every day, and keep two extra eyes on the polls showing if our name recognition has slipped or increased.

Bah...  That is for the vain. Me, as long as there is coffee, a bowl of tobacco and a lawn chair, I am happy.


Yep, those folks have it bad... to paraphrase L. Ron Hubbard, its better that you kill me than PR me....
And really, how many of them look happy? If they are happy, why the drugs, the booze, and all that?


wait, have they outlawed coffee and tobacco yet? I might have to join them....