Rampant Rumors, Unconfirmable. - A warning

Once more, rumors at the library speak of another stabbing by the Road Home. This makes over a dozen reaching my ears since Turkey day, and I know many more go unheard until bodies get found the next few weeks, based on past years. Betting a few others happened, and the victims managed to crawl off, before any knew it happened, to some hole they either survived in, or passed away. 

News still lies silent, but often is on evening events until morning. 

Still, one more reason to stay well clear... of Hell's Block. No way I will return there, short of being armed to the teeth myself. Or suicidal. Not feeling the urge for either now, but steel rests on my belt, I step lighter than ever before, and sleep, when out, with one eye open. Not a good thing for my health and sanity. 

. 

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

The Ultimate Terrorist - A bit of Fried Food Day Satire

You might think that as a member of the Homeless Community, I fear the gangs and addicts hanging around us, slinging drugs, stealing stuff, and the like. But it ain't so.

I still fear the one branch of criminal activity we will never control. The mafia so determined to win, even Al Qaeda and the Sicilians sit in awe over their perseverance. Terrorists to us all, capable of far more dollar damage at the individual level than anything short of a natural disaster.

And this morning, I detoured around the long way to check on the local branches of this foul organization, wondering what dark thing they plan next. What I saw sent shivers of horror down my spine.

The Wild Ones are nearing that time of year, when they wreak havoc on us all.

They're up there, watching for their moments. All the branches and chapters.

The most aggressive stand just inside the cemeteries, ears twitching as they choose targets. Occasionally one lowers his or her head, tossing it about while pawing the grass, before calming down, head still low, eyes narrowed, ears tilted back. The others look at them, trembling as they know what was said.

"Dibs".

And thus the fate of yet another poor motorist is sealed, as some buck, doe, or foolish fawn claims the right to ruin our day, choosing our car to take with them to the "other side".


Saw it this morning. That old buck with the graying muzzle, looking around at the young rivals and deciding he was done, then glancing through the fence towards the road. He's looking for his target now, the car to claim as his headstone or monument of destructive suicide. Might take a while, he seems picky about who to inflict the insurance claim upon. Might even wait for better weather, and a chance for a convertible.

Yes, Deer. And you know they are pissed off when they reach out to their allies and cousins to make matters worse.

It's organized, believe me... and when they feel you are beneath worth, they'll taunt some foolish pronghorn or armadillo out onto the pavement to collect their rightful due for them. Sometimes a fat raccoon or other beast gets conned into taking the fall for the events. They love to watch your shocked expressions, frantic braking or swerving, and revel at the satisfying "Bang-Crunch" noises that follow, especially if they can survive unscathed, and rack up a tally before heading to the Happy Grazing Grounds.

Worst is when they call upon the ultimate enforcers, seeking vengeance on even the largest vehicles. Ol' Uncle Bullwinkle and Cousin Wapiti smirk at the mass, lean in a shoulder and take on even semi's, just to keep us all on our toes.

All this, just for racing through their turf, those neighborhoods called "Rural", "Urban-(blank) Interface" or "Open Space".

And you have to watch out for their own Black-And-Whites:, the most feared of all. The little demons that issue tickets even without stopping you, or any contact. God help the poor driver following that minivan with the health-conscious mom that tosses out the half finished pack of donettes... the buggers smell that rich, chocolate caked pastry from miles away, diving in like TV cops on a box of full-sized donuts, tail raised to let all know, you interfere with our investigation of this littering, we will tag your vehicle beyond redemption of several power-washes. And no make or model is safe from their vigilance, even the light rail trains carry the citations they issue, as any nose can tell.

Yes, beware the Wild Ones.... the ultimate terrorists, who can dive through windshields, serve their own home search warrants and against whom there is no legal recourse!
Take heed, folks, those critters are up to something, their "Chatter" is up....

The Druggies are spun. - a poem of the streets tonight

Everyone's all spun up
now that the holiday is passed
and they feel it's time to spend
the funds they accumulated flying signs
or through petty larceny.

Each of them convinced
we all want to get high
and treating we who stay clean
like pariahs until they need things,
like, say, our lighters.

The war on drugs,
well, folks, you lost it somehow
and along the way to defeat
everyone lost sight of the villains
who are dancing victory.

It leaves me worrying,
about where safety will be soon,
as once those funds finally disappear
these predators will spread out fast
seeking folks to roll.

Walking with care tonight,
hoping they keep down their way
as I get ready to head out
and tuck in for the night,
checking six every step.

They're all spun up,
and let me tell you what,
it ain't all giggles and guffaws.
Some are twisted up so tight
they'll walk against wind.

Been lectured on smoking
by a guy who kept asking
where he could score some weed,
and I almost sent him down
to the shelter area.

The fighters seek blood,
trying to get others to toss
that first, damning blow in it,
so they can walk away safe,
laughing at jailed fools.

Some are out "Shopping"
as we tend to call it,
that fast pass-by, looking over gear
for something worth pawning for fixes,
as they wander about.

There is no "safety"
out here on the winter streets,
until they either burn out hard
or wind down slow before dying,
but such it is.

Smell the skunk reek
off so many that bespeaks weed,
and the ether smell leaves me
seeking a scratching post when meth
gets smoked in bathrooms.

This is the winter
when the druggies dance with delight
at how they got funded well
towards binges that last nights, weeks
and some even months.

I'm ready to walk
back into the dark foothills now,
seeking a quiet place to hide
until this frenzy at last dies
back down to normal.

But it won't soon.
New Year's Eve will be bad,
and the days leading to it.
Then the predations will truly begin
in the name of...
just staying high.
26December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, walking carefully tonight.

Dangers Rise Up - A poem of the streets

Dangers rise up
as the cold builds
and Winter reaches out claws
to rip up sup
as we wander.

Currently, we wonder
who is our stalker
and rumors talk of one
who likes stabbing backs
with real knives.

I don't venture
west of Third West
myself now that my allergies
rage up so easily
so it's hearsay.

Or is it?
Been warning folks lately
about the new, darker element
that walks the streets
of Salt Lake.

Now, at night
I do worry some
about those guys I know
who have gone back
to the shelter.

And those campers
who brave that area
at about the same time
as these crimes occurred
at Coffee Line.

Eyes narrowed warily
I survey those about
seeking some clue, but fail
to see where threats
may be waiting.

Oh, I see
some that cause concern
but none match what happened
or am I blinded
by my misconceptions.

So I walk
with a different gait.
Hiding the bum knee's pain
to make the target
look less inviting...
and warn friends
to beware.
7November2013 - Dyfedd Rex

The Stalkers and Lurkers Abound - A poem of today's streets

You see them stalking
bundles of pure rage
high on some drug
looking for a fight,
making one when able
just to notch guns
they don't (hopefully) carry.

This year is different.
Worse than last year,
beyond the memories held
by the chronically homeless,
they all talk daily
about these proddy punks
and the fights avoided.

Already, the word's out.
Watch your backs, fellas,
these wannabe's are hunting,
looking for hair's hesitation
then marking that person
as one to roll
when the opportunity presents.

Been seeing them around,
hanging out at Library,
stalking the streets wildly,
lurking around convenience stores,
waiting for their prey,
that one who forgot,
and flashed his roll.

Not just money sought,
but your precious gear,
sleeping bags are tight,
so they're going pricey
as all the agencies
gave out their last
months ago, if had.

Electronics, cell phones, food
and the SNAP cards
all in high demand,
and easy to move
when the cops leave
to respond to fights
sometimes staged as diversions.

Hug the lights nightly,
yet use shadows wisely
to check your six,
making sure your safe,
not followed to camp,
where they invade often
seeking off guard moments.

This is the life,
it ain't easy, folks.
Nerves begin to fray
as we stay tense
for far too long,
never able to relax,
lest we seek death.

I watch them myself,
trying to see clues
as to who scored,
who's still hunting prey,
and who's just lurking
itching for a fight
to make a name.

9October2013 - Dyfedd Rex.

Predators Seek the Panhandlers - a poem of the streets.

I'm starting to worry.
The kite flyers talk,
some of it boasts,
others some sound advice,
but they mentioned money
and ears around perked
that should be noted
by all of us.

They're comparing their takes,
and the rough elements
that drift in yearly
just to feed upon
their fellow homeless hear.
Now even I'm jittery
as someone mentioned today
I had work recently.

It's one more hazard,
beyond the normal predators
who seek next highs
and see those dollars
as easy way out
of their own bind,
just hit and run,
who cares how hard.

The streets are uncaring,
some should know better,
others note the looks
but give them back
with that nasty grin
telling the beasts "Try",
as they're spoiling themselves
to take it back.

Two "Giving Seasons" now,
this makes my third
here on the streets,
and I walk soft,
but won't back down
if a fool tries
cause once you do
you're only rolled more.

One little, bright ray,
the beasts head in
once the weather turns
so tonight's dark clouds
make it safer now
for at least campers,
but those at Shelter
better watch their backs.

Don't care what's said.
It's a new crowd
hunting the panhandlers now,
though a few faces
seem a bit familiar,
more are probably just
from before my time.
Or maybe they're not.

Keep your mouths shut
never count your cash
in lonely, dark places,
or out in open.
And don't push luck,
for she's often fickle
touching your life wickedly
with her left hand.

Best defenses there are,
keep to a crew,
tell others where flying,
and only those trusted
the path returned by,
lest the rabid monsters
hunt you down swift
and leave a corpse.
--- and that will happen
several times this  year.

9October2013 - Dyfedd Rex, walking soft and safe as he can.