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.

Smoking Lizard is Driving - a poem written just for that failed idea of a poetry eBook

In the darkness,
as the road rolls
under my wheels,
empty-headed dreams rise.
On this highway
I know every dip
and twist now
so bloody well,
my mind wanders away
into fantastic Aethers.

It seeks something
for my next project
to work on
against the deep boredom
broken only by
the threat of deer
leaping onto pavement,
Reptile brain drives,
as others gallivant
into the dream worlds
seeking story ideas.

They rise up
out of lowland fogs
as we move,
the three part beast,
the smoking lizard
faithful at the wheel,
shaggy mountain man
eyes hunting threats,
as the wandering dreamer
dives into imagination.

Neurons gauzed thickly
by Aetheral fog banks
that hold secrets
or just strange bits
around which the bard
can build his tales
for telling later.
Or right now,
as I find myself muttering
bits of dialogue.

Despite the risks,
each trip this happens.
Wyoming whiteouts swirled
and the mind wandered
trusting elder remnants
of caveman and reptile
to use reflexes
as the dreamer
wanders amid that threat
seeking new visions.

Even severe thunderstorms
broiling across arid landscape
of High Plains
during the hot summers
never stopped quests
by my various egos
who each hold
some vital skill
that makes the tales
come to life.

This trip peaks,
along the Great Divide,
amid red clay
turned grey under moon
as tires thrum
the road's siren song
that calls me
back to reality
as the primitive bits
bathroom locations often.

After that break
the dreams return quick,
as we begin
that difficult, twisty part
of path home.
I crack the window
to gain air
fighting sleep off
as the lizard puffs
through my pipes.

Mountains around me
as we rise up
and descend repeatedly,
watching awestruck for moment
when the moon
sets beside streaking meteor,
which tickles ideas
inside my skull
and the dreams arise
one more time.

Across the sage-lands,
winding past lonely Evanston,
the body drives,
and all but dinosaur
circle around ideas
seeking to bag prey
he alone ignores,
knowing the dangers
of hunting those dreams
during dark journeys.

Entering a draw,
deep reddish orange cliffs
taking their hues
from the growing light
as swift twilight
overtakes the dark night
and me rolling
down this road.
Her light gives body
the reins back.

We all tumble
back into one being,
save the lizard
who clamps on pipe,
begging someone please
to load two more.
"We still have
those damned canyons,
and all the idiots
racing to work".

His warning works,
as I become one,
bits melding together
over cup of coffee
long since cold
bought along back trail
probably on prairies
I once called home
before these mountains captured
my roaming heart.

Weaving my way
up Silver Creek Canyon
I begin assembling
the guy others know
from those inside,
forcing them back together.
Crossing Parley's Park
the welding complete
as I become Dave
not Dyfedd Rex.

Emerging from canyons
the Great Basin spreads
before my eyes
under the grey dawn
my eyes seek
remains of inland sea
long since faded
to shallow lake
holding more salt within
than most seas.

The dream remain,
now a bit faded,
tattered thought bits
that I can weave
when chance allows
into poems perhaps,
or a story
if characters co-operate
and the smoking lizard
releases the wheel...
after parking car
before my home.
-August 2014 from kernel idea September 2010.

Coffee

I'm sipping the long overdue cup,
staring at this screen, wondering: why?
Why is it that this mug
filled with rich, dark essence
can keep me sane each day?

Fingers slowly flex, then dance
after just half of that first draught.
The sun doesn't appear overly optimistic,
the sky's blue no longer depresses,
the birds are no longer annoying.

The stuff works deeper into me,
thawing the soul, activating imagination
stirring my hopes back up
and yet, calming me down
from hating the universe for being...
morning people.

Stretching out, sipping and smoking pipe
I let my internal janitor
clear away the cobwebs and clouds
that the night left inside
as the java finds my skull.

The knee feels better after a cup,
the back loosens up enough to bend
and everything begins to mellow.
Others say I'm spinning up
they've never tasted my "dawn desperation".

The stories and ideas flow,
having percolated with the joy juice,
stirred up by just that aroma
filling space around and in me
with hope and some measure of patience...
I freaking hope.

Few laud their mornings like I,
who remembers the cold nights
and that first cup, when I had cash,
to thaw out after sleeping outside
when there was no other place.

It is my one, true wife,
the thing I cannot separate from
save when I mess about with my mistress
that ugly habit of smoking a pipe
of equally rich, black tobacco.

Others can mock me,
friends can tease me,
family hides until that cup is drank,
and the world best not irritate me,
for only coffee and tobacco allow me...
to persevere.

Now, get the hell out of my way,
my cup is empty, and needs refilling.
8September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, on a Moaner's Day.

Satire interview with Buck the Bum

The following is satire, unless you are homeless, in which case, you probably can relate to it. Buck is a figment of my imagination, as is this reporter.

Buck the Bum, met on the street by our intrepid reporter...

When appraised of the current move by the Utah Legislature on a bill banning "aggressive" panhandling.... boy, that made him unload both barrels.

IR: Excuse me, can I ask you some questions, I'm with the Town Jester, a news outlet that seeks folks input on issues that just beg for lampooning.

Buck: Sure, just don't block the sign, will ya, and stay back by the tree, look like your passed out or something, otherwise folks think I'm dealing drugs, and I hate having folks get pissed for handing me money and not giving them their good time stuff in return. You have to duck flying lead and do paperwork with the cops when they leave you alive.

IR: So, this is a broad bill, HR101, kind of reads like another attempt at making any panhandling illegal again.

Buck: Yeah, biggest panhandlers on the planet, they're scared of the competition we are giving them.

IR: What?

Buck: Look, these bums looked at their campaign coffers, and realized donations was down. They see us out here making money, and viola, we are the real reason for their shortfall in earnings. Hell, folks is giving us more, as at least we bums is honest. (Taps his sign, which reads: "Yeah, I'm going to get high, but at least I ain't a politician.")

IR: Look, you know that some of you do get aggressive.. and act unsafe? Right?

Buck: Yeah, once they get hit enough, they can't do stupid things like that. Shame for the folks that hit 'em. But, you ain't gonna cure stupid with rules. Just makes them dumber, and wastes your time.

IR: So, you are for the law?

Buck: Hell, no. Look, Like I said, this bill is all about them being scared we're out here getting money that they used to get. And with all the scandals and disgust about political >bleep<, they are right to be scared. I mean, really, why give them taxes and money on the side? At least when you tip waitresses, you get better service. Tip politicians? They come back for more, and raise your taxes to boot.

IR: Like the homeless pay taxes. You have no report-able income.

Buck: Look, still spend some of this in stores, that gets taxed, same as everyone else. And, I smoke. I ain't really trying to get high, it's my gimmick. But tobacco is taxed at, what, about one-hundred forty percent. About a third of my money goes there. I bet I pay more in tax than most folks do, as a percentage.

IR: Right. So, still not reported on the income?

Buck: Not all of us make a fortune out here. Most days, you get a few coins, not much, less than a fiver, others you strike it rich, and more days than you admit, you leave the corner empty handed, or with supplies only. Drinks, food, maybe some gloves or other stuff. I don't fly that often. Figure, at best, even the most die-hard only make about sixty-five hundred a year, and that is under the deductible. I know, looked it up out of curiosity. Me, I'm lucky to get fifty, maybe sixty a month. I only fly for a limited time, and walk away early if I exceed a certain amount. Pass that mark by big, and I won't fly for a week or more, sometimes three. Out of  respect for the gifts and the givers. Unless I have to.

IR: Back to the bill, how would it impact you?

Buck: Make it tougher, reduce the number of corners we can use, which means the druggies and boozers will be more belligerent at trying to rule corners. Fights will go up, as will crimes against the homeless. You jam us in tight into a few spots, and it attracts the problems of drugs and stupidity like flies to >bleep<. Might reduce the posers, those fakes who come out here, pretending to be one of us. But, it won't stop the fools from doing this in dumb places, so the cops will be tied up enforcing this stuff, and not able to work on the bigger issues of real crimes, like the drug dealings and robberies that are spiking up a bit, with the down economy. Not saying it ain't a good idea, just not a wise one at this time. Fix the economy, fix the system, and this will taper off. Just remember it, and fix the laws then, or better, redesign the unsafe spots so they can't be used.

IR: You think that will end homelessness? Fixing the economy.

Buck (after long fit of laughter): Dude, there been homeless folks since we came down from the trees, or Adam and Eve got evicted from Eden, depending upon your point of view. This country was built from homeless folks. >bleep<, even the Native Americans ancestors were homeless, before shifting to grounds here to hunt. Everyone in America has at least a few homeless bums in their woodpile.
End it? Forget that. You can reduce it, make it less of a crime magnet, but you will never lick it. Besides, we homeless walk in good company. Look at the who's who of the homeless. Ghandi was homeless, Andy Jackson, a president, was one for a while after the Revolution, Davy Crockett, Wild Bill Hickock, most of those that came west? Homeless. Then, for the religious who mock us, well...Moses, Lot, Abraham, Jesus of Nazreth, John the Baptist, Mohammed, Buddha? All homeless at some time. Best we can do, try to keep the numbers down, and give hope it will end. Real hope, not those rollercoaster rides most suffer trying to get out.
Buck:(looks around, still smiling) Yeah, kind of funny, I think. You look at who is really aggressive about getting money. At least we don't use phones to disturb your meals at home with calls for money to "beat" our opponents. Anything that much fun, we do personally, not with ads or posters. And we got 'em scared of losing money to us. The dregs of society. (laughs) Yep. And if they keep having all these problems in their own ranks, folks actually might uptick the money to us over giving to them. Or, maybe, one of us should run for their offices. They can't complain if we are better than them, and honest about we plan to pocket most of it. After all, we're just bums.

Buck shooed me off, after that last bit. Said he looked too happy, and folks were afraid he was planning something criminal as he looked at them.

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.

Momento Mori Salvaged Safely - A poem of my anxieties (yes, I have a few, strange ones)

He was saved,
lifted at the last moment
away from that dreaded corner waste basket
to live on a bit
until given rest.

Worn, battered oilskin
held together I sometimes think
only by my will and residual smoke
that permeates his failing form,
barely holding cohesion.

That old hat,
it holds many dear memories
and some I'd much rather leave behind
but that isn't my way,
or Santayana's advice.

You must learn,
from mistakes one has made,
and this tattered covering for my head
traveled those paths with me
as I wandered.

So, he remains
to someday take up residence
in a case like some memento mori,
to remind in future days
where I walked.

Taking care now,
to keep him at hand
for that day, hopefully not far off,
when that yet crafted container
can hold him...
safe from further harm,
able to remind me,
once I was homeless.

6January2014 - Dyfedd Rex, relieved his traveling companion was not 86'd by friends with good intentions.

I Turn To My Pipes - A poem of Smoking and being Homeless

This came to me as I passed the 700 hit mark on the blog for the month... kind of a thanks, and explanation. 

They all forget
I have nothing left
to keep my sanity
but the pipes.

They should cheer
that only tobacco enters
those precious old briers
instead of drugs.

But, being employed
with roof over head
and walls around them
they often forget.

And I turn once more
to these old, worn friends
filling them with my blends
or just straight Cavendish tobaccos
to find some simple relief.

I should fly,
hold that cardboard sign
out on cold corners
to get some.

But I resist
that temptation for tonight
seeking instead to stay
healthy and warm.

Besides, if desperate,
I'll stick a pipe
into my mouth, empty
just for flavor.

I turn away this time
not out of funds lacking
(though indeed they are gone)
to find out, for sure,
how much those pipes help.

Fighting the urge
but the will weakens
not from addiction, perhaps
but shear frustration.

Each time lit
those pipes give me
just a tiny hope
of ending this.

Not life, no.
Just the homeless part,
and the missing job,
to rejoin society.

And I turn once more,
now with a healthy defiance
knowing others see these smokes
as evil incarnate despite being
more legal than skunk weed...
...or perhaps, that is the issue.
That or mine smells better.
26September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Briers as Sanity's Anchor - A Poem of my pipes and being homeless both

The briers are cracked,
beaten about in pockets
as I walk the streets,
but I've held on to them
despite my homeless wandering.

The stems are worn,
holes forming in several
at the tip where teeth grip
frustrations drilling them through
as I keep slogging on.

Tape keeps them connected
as lack of funds sometimes
forces me to skip cleaning
and tar builds up inside
from lack of proper tools.

Yet I still smoke them,
and cherish each bowl
wreathing a grin in fumes
as I watch the world
racing around me like rats.

I try to keep them going
but know the battle is futile
soon they will give up ghosts
to ride up with the aromas
my blends send out from them.

Still, it is worth it.
Each day, they are my anchor
keeping me sane down here
on the chilling streets of life
as autumn closes in fast...
...and my smoke mingles with leaves
---falling and rising in the air.

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
(And no, its not a plea for a new pipe, trying to get work to cover that.)

Truth in Advertising - More Pun then Poem

On the lighter side....

Folks keep telling me
"You are what you eat."
Holy Bat Guano, folks!
I can barely afford tobacco
now I need lawyers
to change my name legally
for truth in advertising
to say, perhaps, Chip zenDonuts?
lest I really anger
some roaming cannibal named Hannibal
by not tasting right.

no, I ain't gonna put the tag line on this one... share it, if you're in the same boat.

Writer Fuel, Anyone? - A Poem of Writing

Every writer has their blend.
The "word-tane" rating to speed
along the tale being told
tweaked to their own tastes,
needs or financial budget room.

Writer Fuel, that's the stuff
we will talk about today
The grades I usually use
the ones held in reserve.

Top of the list sits
the standby of good coffee
thought being homeless I resort
to instant way too often
for it to be effective.

Next comes my JP4 version
Coke and Coffee mingled together
in varying ratios based on
my energy levels and distractions
to blow past as needed.

Cookies and donuts tie out
at the number three slot,
forcing me to call them
Alpha and Beta fuel blends
as fingers dance across keyboard.

The fifth slot stinks plenty,
being the tobacco I use
to calm nerves as writing
or ponder out plot issues
when my characters stage rebellions.

Below them lay the others
not granted permanent ranking status.
Ice cream, root beer, and
a few favorite foods rare
in my diet these days.

Right now, WF2 sits ready
one bottle down, one mixing
to fuel an edit overdue
and one long writing session
to finish a story soon.

These are my choice fuels,
so what do you use?
I'd like to hear ideas
for days when cash strapped
or just suffering writer's block.

24JUNE2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Aromatic Sorcerous Enchantments and My Blends!

Dave's Tobacco Blends....

Rum Raider = 2:2:1 ;  Black Cavendish, Natural Cavendish, Buttered Rum Burley
Hobo Cherry Balls = 1:2:2:5 ; Cherry Cavendish, Black Cavendish, Black Truffle, Whiskey Cavendish
Hat Wizard's Mocha =1:1:1:1.5:0.5 ; Black Truffle, Mellow Mocca, Black Cavendish Natural Cavendish, Whiskey Cavendish
All based off a 2.5 oz pack at purchase. 
What will I tinker with next? Who the hell knows... Thinking a Chocolate Whiskey thing straight up or a Pure Black Cav Mocca... but letting the mind perk this over a bit more. These smoke great in briers  but were best in my Osage Orange wood brier from Kansas.

Black Cav is still my goto tobacco
but here of late, I've been experimenting
touching on other flavors and different cures
seeking that perfect blend for all occasions.

From the under the hat it drifts
the smoke from my last few pipes,
seeking to enthrall folks by aromatic sorcery
to make them see someone not here.

This is now my Life's great mission
to show the world I still exist
a lonely gentleman from forgotten past era
walking among the world still, with pride.

So I tip my hat at the ladies,
make the kids laugh at my faces
and wander amid streets of Yule's joy,
leaving some to wonder if Grandpa returned...

... or Santa wants his own pipe back.
Season's Greetings all! And No, I won't share,
save the bits of odor left behind
as this homeless bum walks amid you.

20December2012 - Dyfedd Rex