Aliens and Souvenirs pt. 1 - a little tale for All Hallow's Eve...

I hated to leave that temp at the desk alone, I mean, who knows what sort of mayhem will slip by the uninitiated. What others write off as crank calls, we in CRAPP take seriously. But, when the folks in the funky shades and black suits call, you go over, let them wire you up, and try steering them away from questions that will leave them in the care of "..the men in white, who are always right.."
I made it to the rickety freight elevator behind our back door, the one I use to escape folks  like the little lawyer elf lady when they come serving summons, subpoenas, restraining orders, or IRS/GAO audit notices. The doors on that thing almost closed when I remembered, I'd sent a notice of my disgust this morning, leaving the recently departed James Blair's "Tank", a heavily modified IH Scout that had the military green with envy at the fire-power it packed, in the Director's parking stall.
The damned elevator has a sensor in it that triggers the doors to move in guillotine fashion based on your urgency to enter or exit. Yeah, most of them do, but this one is different, somehow, some joker actually placed metal blades on the thing, to make it that way. OSHA would have a fit, but this is one of two places they never inspect for safety issues. Which is why me and the guy who samples the lava in Hawaii have great bar crawls laughing about trying to lure the paper pushers out in the danger, when I have vacations or work in the middle of the less than peaceful Ocean.
Manny heard the jingle of the keys, and stuck his head out. "Five O'clock somewhere, right?"
I grimaced. I was going to be buying rounds for a few years, given his workmanship in carpentry, and union rules. "Only if you want to help me pass a lie detector, commites."
"Thou shalt not bear false witness, Trejanio." He scolded me, knowing I'd have to, or be up on charges again.
"Yeah, well, maybe you could ask their guardian angels to steer them to the funny stuff, not the locked into a padded cell stuff." I grunted, realizing some of that would be better not known either. "Just not about incidents like that hunting group in Texas."
"You are on your own, mi amigo. But, I will see if Dad will help bail you out if you get too deep in the rotten cabbage." With that, my oldest friend turned back to the desk. "I'm going to need some walnut scraps to fix the desk top, grab some on your way back."
Once a carpenter, always a carpenter. Manny hates most jobs, save the times he sneaks onto a Habitat for Humanity site, to restore his own faith in why he keeps trying to save folks.
"I'll try to get back after lunch, (temp name). Take yours at noon, put the phones to the voice mail, just promise to come back." Letting loose my best smile, I tried to keep (her?) from getting too scared at doing this solo. "If we let if fill up, the folks upstairs make all temp jobs permanent. And the pizza joint down the road is off limits. Caught them using unicorn meat last month, still ain't sure we seized it all."
The newbie looked worried, I really hoped (she?) thought I was joking about the unicorn meat. Looked the type to be a unicorn lover, and had that left eye glint to suggest they might actually suffer some serious horned horse lover vengeance at the pie shop.

Crossing to the shadows chapter 18 - where I realized it was a Billenius tale as well

"Dare I ask why your face is that way, vir?"

I am certain the innocent expression I was trying to cultivate failed to overcome the fat lip, black eye, and broken nose. Avunculus was in fine form as he dressed me down. He let that comment sit a while, then picked up the night log. Custors worked the walls here in Radixium, the streets as well. One of the few towns that demanded that aid as part of our rent on land in or nearby. My fellow custodi did not appreciate the riot I started in toasting Sir Basil's memory.

The local Thieves Guild even went so far as demanding my head, via an executioner's block. Not that enough of them were able to lift a knife this morning, let alone slide it into my back. More due to Ringelius and my new friend Dzhino.

"Let's go over the charges again, shall we, viri?" Dux Mattio glanced at the parchments on his desk. "Opened the gate after dark, contrary to orders. Allowed entry after dark through that gate. Exited the city by unauthorized means. Instigated a fight. Property damage in said fight. Instigated a riot on the streets. And, my favorite here, drew a weapon on a citizen of the city."

He let it all sit, acting like I would correct him. While I had that kind of urge, at the moment, the fat lip limited my ability to respond coherently. Nor did I want him to see the broken tooth. Damaging Custodi property would be added then. I hate that we get treated like slaves, even while free. It is understandable if the injury prohibits doing your assigned duties.

My silence was not sitting well with him. "Fine. For a moment, forget I am your commanding officer, and tell your uncle...."

"Sir, if I do that, Avia will hear the tale. I like my ears attached to my head." Ringelius laughed at that comment. Laid out on a bench, arm in a sling and not facing a disciplinary action, he could afford that.humor. I was looking at losing that first command, if not my career.

The Dux did not relax as he said he would. A ploy, and I fell for it. "Lost my right to remain silent?"

A faint smile. "Yes, you did. Not a bad stonewall until then. Remember, your grandmother will get invoked a lot, as she is in service, though among the diplomats." He winked at me. "Sit, tell the tale. I won't be too hard, Fair, but not harsh as some are agitating for."

Now Norbanus, standing next to me spoke. "I take it you mean those fools from the Left Hand."
That comment provoked laughter from the two veterans in chair along the other wall of the office.

"I think the Dux is more worried about the demand to have you executed, viri." Keth leaned his chair back, holding a cold rag to the eye that was turning a deep coppery red around it. "The Centuria Sinistra would be glad to abandon Radixium, and all Amoeni Terrai, given an excuse. The locals will still be here, causing him problems after that."

Rico merely snorted over that issue. I was learning the old spearman was a tough nut to crack, as the saying goes. Somewhere out in the brawl, those two joined our side, luckily.

"I may no longer have any jurisdiction over you two, but don't tempt me to recall you to duty to stand charges with the boy." Avunclus's expression spoke the seriousness of the charges. "As you have broken silence, you might as well tell the tale, Custor."

Rolling my shoulders reminded me of the knife wound above my right wing stub. Looking around, I could tell the tale would come out in a light not good for me, judging by everyone's injuries and moods. "I cannot prove it, sir, but I think the local thieves set up Sir Basil to be slain. We know that he was outside their ranks, not appreciated, and many here were jealous of his success. Especially at evading the law when caught."

The Dux shook his head. "We are not sure he is dead, Billenius."

"I am, sir." Meeting his eyes, tinged green from a lack of sleep, reminded me of rest I also missed. Unlike most my kinfolk, I prefer a few turns of the sand glasses a day sleep, not a few each hebdoma. "The young dyermo in the outer office found his corpse, at least judging by the equipment he salvaged from it." I hoped Avunclus would forget this part later, looting a corpse is a sin and violation of our laws, even if the event took place outside the borders we kept up.

"And you know this by what?" The momentary levity left him. Now he acted as the local Questor, the other hat he wore here, investigating the crime.

What little air I'd managed to bring into my lungs without pain left me fast. He wanted confirmation of some action to discharge me. "Sir Basil was not just a legend to me, sir. He was my informant." Being dead, I felt Sergei would not mind that coming to light.

That at last got a word from Rico. "Legitimate contact, Mattinius." Leaning forward, bandaged forearm on knees as his left hand sought to keep his spear off the ground, disturbed by his movement. He met the glare the Dux tossed him with one of his own. "Hell, we all have shady friends, Matt. Don't make me mention your contacts in the criminal worlds. Boy cultivated a good one. You never let a death of a good source go unavenged, you might delay it, but never forego it entirely." After a brief pause, the old legionairre said something unexpected. "Never told him about that affair in Chiga, have you?"

Avunclus face told more of the tale than his evasion. "No. Never intended to speak about it again, you old reprobate."

Family gossip came to my mind. When I was still a boy, Avunculus suffered some set back in his career, which led to demotions, a transfer home then to a hardship posting somewhere none spoke of, followed by a rough time climbing back to his former rank, and a fight to ever command numeni again. This event, it appeared, paralleled my own here, somehow.

"Two rain seasons ago, you lost your source. This mess came from that, I take it?" The Dux avoided any further comments on the matter in his past.

"Yes, sir." This time, I felt the need to stay formal. "Word came to him of a family issue he needed to deal with. As this word arrived amid the mess of the jewel thefts and death of the guild master here in town, I tried warning him it might be a trap." The old ache rose, losing a friend to rashness, not that I am any less guilty of such actions to defend my own kith and kin.

Avunclus sat quietly now. Eyes closed, head tilted back a bit. "Yes. I remember that period. Bloody time in the River Ward then, all those murders and stabbings." Silence for a few, as he recalled the information once provided by my friend. "Sir Basil. Perfidio, Billenius. I never guessed you had him as your source. I figured it to be some young thief who wanted out of the guild. As to his being dead, that I doubt."

I dislike admitting to certain abilities I possess, as most with them wind up in monasteriies or temples, secluded away from life. "I cannot, Avunculus. His shade follows the young dyermo. They were brothers."

Norbanus stirred a bit, finally speaking. "Gods. Your donum..."

The elbow I tossed to my cousin's ribs was not fast enough to forestall a new line of questioning.

"Donum?" Avunculus leaned forward over his desk. "You saw this, with the sight? Auras or fate, Custor?"

Silence as a tactic against a commander is not always effective. My dislike of my gifts from the gods is well known, but I do use them, just not as others believe a seer should. Outside, the campii came to life slowly. I heard the brays of onagerum, screeches the desert lizards called (need a name!), and the lowing of the oxen used by some to move across the plains in wagons. I did not wish to answer this question, especially to a member of the gens who supported my resistance to entering the temples as a flamens and augur.

Rescue arrived with a knock on the door.

"Permission to enter?" The Praetor Emeritus, now the Triari, opened the door softly.

"You never need ask that, Nerva. Maybe you can convince my fili patri to talk of the visions he seems reluctant to share." With that, Partuus laid matter of my silence before a court I could not be silent before. The Triarium are the sacred order of spearmen who guard the temples and priests of our people. The Triari is the head, and thus a priest in his own right. One must answer a priest about visions and what your donum have shown you.

Luckily, the Triari had yet to ask himself.

"Visions? The boy is not talking about them again?" His steps were slow, age and injuries suffered over an age of service taking their toll on a once firm stride. "Not a wise idea, vir. Have you not paid enough prices in your life to learn such yet?"

I have a bad habit of making a half sneer when shamed. That let the air hit the tooth, which turned the whole gesture into a wince of pain.

Patruus found that somewhat funny. "Did I forget the damage to Custodi property charge?"

There was no way I was going to win this match now.

"Just snippets of visions. But yes, my aura sight told me the ghost following the dyermo was Sir Basil, same aura, dimmed by death to a shade." Shifting my feet, I moved from attention to a more natural stance. "Before he left, I tried to warn him of the visions. He chose to ignore them." I glanced to the Triari. "We spoke of those visions Praetor."

That classical face, hawk nose and all looked shocked. "Last time I passed through this town. Yes." Now worry creased his brow. "Not a solid dream to base feelings on. He is off the hook for that, Mattio. He understood the visions better than I. How much matches what happened?"

Now I found myself having to betray some confidences Dzhino gave over drinks. Luckily, it was all speculation. "The mother was indeed dead. He was found in a ruined building, but the dyermo has no idea how his brother got there or what the building was in the past."

"Nor do we have records left from the days of contact before the dyermo retreated beneath the earth." The Triari nodded sagely. "Boy did better than I, and the temples gave me much more training on dream and vision interpretations. Let that ride, for now. There are cases of augurs being called by the gods to be amongst the people, not locked away."

Patruus nodded. "Very well, Nerva. I shall take your word."

"I would be curious as to his current visions, though"

Here, I had to speak before uncle could. "This being my first crossing of shadow, I cannot say which are nightmares or visions." Dredging my memories of the past weeks, I found only one that stood out. "I have one that strongly echoes. The only one so far to repeat. A hanging, but the noose breaks, followed by footsteps into the Dunes as the shadow covers the land." The Dunes are the largest and most dangerous area of the Desert of the Shifting Grey Sands. A place of sands and winds few enter willingly. Less than a handful of that few have returned to tell tales of the place during my time of service.

Norbanus shifted suddenly beside me, breaking his parade ground stance. "Viri, there is a hanging slated for just before the shadow falls. A human, for necromancy."

"Gorlot. Yes. I remember that case." The eyes meeting mine now were those of commander not relative. "That is a bit of information I could have used during sentencing. The humans do not understand the power the Shadow grants to the Ars Nox. That vision may have turned the sentencing."

Now I stood uneasily. My donum are not as reliable as most think. "I distrust this vision. It was as if I was the one tracking the fugitive. But my patrol is nowhere near the Dunes."

Silence met that comment for a bit. Only Ringelius showed no signs of worry over this vision. Norbanus shifted his feet uneasily, not a good sign from a legionnaire used to standing still for long periods of time. Even Patruus failed to meet my gaze now, looking out the window over the muster grounds. Fingers of sand fell from the blue first glass of the horarium on the Dux's desk. The yellow sand of the fading hour stood nearly ready to turn over. Even for our kindred, this was a long contemplation of the issue.

No longer able to wait, I at last defended one of my actions. "Keeping the others with the dyermo out held more repercussions. The Eyes and Ears of the Tsar rode with him."

That brought Keth's chair back to the ground. "I thought I recognized that hammer saving your head." His laugh was loud. "No, keeping Garzog and Jaochim outside the walls at night would create a nightmare in relations with the Karleekie, Dux. The boy made a good call there."

Patruus grunted, still looking out the window. "That is the least of the issues. The riot and call for his head are more worrisome."

"Actually, Bill had the whole mess defused before I lifted my tankard and toasted the local guild as a pack of amateurs and pathetic cutpurses." Ringelius deep voice takes many by surprise. Not just in what he says, but the elven words coming naturally in the tones and cadences of a dwarf.

Both the Triari and Rico chuckled at that comment. Rico gave his advice. "Seems you have a confession there, Mattio. Better take that troublemaker to the council and let him face the charges."

"And, not being in the service, you can say Bill's efforts were more to keep the damages down not spread the mess." When I took a look at him, my patraelis winked. "After all, I'm a known disaster when it comes to dealing with folks. They'll buy it. I have enough to pay the damages. Maybe." For the first time in a while, he looked ashamed. "Unless they want me to rebuild that rat hole. I was the one who tossed the lantern."

"I think we will keep silent on that, Ringelius. Most believe Grazon started the fire. Given his reputation, and long list of crimes unpunished for, I say let him accept the responsibility." The Dux rose, no longer my uncle, once more the leader of the catavernae. "But, Billenius, you will take a punishment. Marius gets your command, you take his run west with messages. Even if it places you by the Dunes. I trust the gods and the visions, even if you do not."

Lost my first command, before I even started. "Yes, Vir."

"Choose five to ride with you, Billenius. You still get a command. Antonius is available, and despite his gens, I recommend you take Drinius as well. Other than that, its up to you." Those choices were orders to choose, not hints at who to accept.

"Yes, Vir. I promised the dyermo boy a post with us, wrangling the pack animals."

"Out of your pay. The toast was the issue, not the fight. If I show you have a fine or loss of wealth, it will go better in council." He looked us over over again. "But, I think you go the north route, not the south. I would prefer the Tres Triconis be separated for a while, lest I see more charges and damage bills arrive on my table."

We nodded, Norbanus off without reprimand, myself already feeling the loss of my pastry monies for the next few greater moons, and Ringelius grinning. He enjoys being in a court over altercations like last night. Says the attention makes up for all the things folks overlook him for on account of his size.
"Dismissed, Viri. Ringelius, back here at noon so I can take you before the council."

The three of us left our elders to discuss anything, happy to be off so light.

My personal politics prove problematic.

Too many feel I must toe

the lines of the Two Parties

or be just another apathetic voter.

This leaves me convinced others are

but fools who dance to drums

beat by demonic beasts who control

the world through their strange rhythms.

I rarely speak of them, lately.

Tired of ridicule over walking paths

others cannot see as valid beliefs.

But, they are my firm convictions,

not those of shadowy kettle masters,

who seek unison of oar strokes

to drive forward their own agendas,

making others feel they are theirs.

I hold that we have failed

the promise of the American Dream.

We lack the spine to choose

true servants to the Civil Order,

setting over ourselves a foul over-class,

Masters who speak with forked tongues. 

Mine is the way of Conservation,

of faith, not just petty wealth.

I am a social libertarian, and yet

I feel the need for accountability.

Mine is the view of few,

none out there hold many beliefs

that call me to a poll

to cast a vote for them.

Instead, being homeless, jobless, and surviving,

the path I walk is... detachment. 

Until one rises up as champion

for those things I have spoken,

none deserve my support, money, anything. 

I shall not defend this stance.

I see no need to, now.

Society kicked me one last time,

so I get the message carried

in that boot tip so wickedly.

You, America, are a failure, now.

And I should have stood up

long before now to say such. 

Now, I weigh my options, carefully.

Do I write off all people?

Walk off into the beckoning mountains,

never to walk amid such fools?

Or do I make a stand?

Pondering on this will take time. 

9June2014 - Dyfedd Rex, who is not dead, just been thinking. 

Walking Into the Fray Once More - A poem of job searching while homeless

Blanketed in white snow,
veiled in white to brown smog
the valley hides today
from my wandering eyes, torn away
from the job search
just starting back up once more
over my better judgement.

Wrapped in dark shadows
made of fear and some sadness
I try once more
to find a way back in
to a cold society
that only seems to value money,
over heart and pride.

This is how today
plays out in my strange life
as the cold pools
in the deep inter-mountain valleys nightly
leaving the place chilled
until the sun rises above sawtooths
of central Wasatch Front.

Yeah, I said it.
I'm trying once more to find
a job to lift
this tired old body of mine
off these cold streets
and back into someplace to call
a home for myself.

Not thrilled about it.
This will take tons of time
wasted efforts will abound
as some just don't understand ever
that only True Way
to end the Homeless Problem is
to give them jobs.

But, try I will,
until the will at last fades,
sapped by colder hearts
that refuse to see their idiocy
at turning their backs
on those in such dire need
of a way out.

Sad, really, I say.
That you don't look in mirrors
and see your souls,
eaten by the worms crawling within,
that destroy by hatred
the one thing so many preach,
that thing called... Forgiveness.
Not to mention, Mercy.

16December2013 - A pensive and productive Dyfedd Rex.

Surfing the Couches - A poem of the streets and time off them both.

Riding the wave of couches

Offered freely, without prompting,
the wave beckoned to me
calling thoughts of warmth and comfort,
so I took the challenge on,
riding waves of couches.

During the cold Winters,
we Homeless often gain such,
a period of hospitality greatly treasured
when we "Couch surf" nightly
to avoid being frozen.

Each couch has stories,
each offer backed with cheer
or made out of some deeper fear
that we will not see
the next day's light.

So, we climb on,
grateful for this strange tide
of cushions, pillows and treasured quilts
dreading the inevitable end ahead
when we fall back.

for the streets kill
during the dark winter months
taking toll even on the living
sapping us of better things
like willpower and life.

For three glorious weeks
I avoided the nightly chill
for the most part, with gratitude
as floors and couches offered
ran into each other.

It started just before
the holiday of great feasts
a weekend off, and some more
five days, when all's told
not shivering through nights.

Then came bigger wave
when across three places offered
a week and half of couches
got surfed by this boy
as he stayed upright.

It ended at last
with four days of camping
amid the near zero nightly chill
brought on by an inversion,
heralded with Smog's veils.

But still, in all,
It was a good run,
time to decompress, regroup, and renew
my faith in humanity's future,
as well as mine.

So, thanks for offers
worry not at my disappearances
from my normal haunts those nights,
for I rode those couches
to remove the worries...
... and thaw out a bit.
16December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, with thanks.

There Are Treasures Above Us - A poem of time off the streets

Amid the banks of smog,
the lights of streets and homes
combine with those from the businesses
to wash out the stars.

So, it is a treat
to escape the city at times
and see the splendor of night
tossed across Heaven's great vault.

This was my holiday treat,
a trip out off the streets
deep into the less populated lands
to close out a cabin.

There I looked up happy,
watching Orion rise above the mountains
even his bow strings showing clearly
through the atmospheric disturbance twinkles.

Found my glasses need replacing
as only six stars I counted
when gazing into Pleiades cluster carefully
where once I saw seven.

Letting my eyes dance across
following the vast white Milky Way
from east to west while grinning,
my smile wreathed in smoke.

The folks chided bad habits
not realizing what I indulged in
that night was not the pipe,
but the beauty of night.

Later, I went out again,
looking east to Bear River Mountains
and seeing the Hunter's dogs rising
Sirius now clearing that dark horizon
and hints of Procyon's coming.

I moved westward with eyes,
seeking other old friends up there.
Seeking the bull facing ol' Orion,
and the Hyades wide 'V'.

Then over to the hill
which cloaked most of Cygnus
save brilliant Deneb, still circling around
on her path across sky.

And just to the south
lay the window to the Universe
where four stars mark the corners
holding in distant, old galaxies.

Each star has a name
though my memory has lost most
even ones I once knew well,
but the years stole away.

I wanted to look north,
but terrain and the cabin's bulk
blocked everything beyond Cassiopeia's crown
and Perseus with his devil-star.

A few faint meteor tails
creased the night's deep black occasionally,
amid the brilliant and dim lights
I view as Yule's lights.

When I gave up, chilled,
I walked back inside, tweaking words
into what you read here now,
hoping they can move you.

The stars are my friends,
never really leaving me all alone,
just shoved aside by others pollutions
that they claim prevents crime.

Me, I think folks forget
the greatest treasures we all possess
are the memories of Nature's shows
walking through our lives constantly.

So, next time you travel
if it is in the night,
pull off the road you travel
look up, and collect treasures...

...and share them with family,
friends, or just some passer-bys.
You'll keep the joy and wonder,
finding it easier to carry
than most other treasured items.
29November2013 - Dyfedd Rex

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

Blinded by Their Own Agendas - a poem of the moment and streets

Yeah.... right.
http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/56940960-78/homeless-lake-salt-chief.html.csp

I'll believe it when I see it...
as to fix things, you first must
open your eyes and look around you,
open your ears and hear what's said.
And from what I saw just today
that ain't gonna happen any time soon.

Out in front of the Library today,
with an incident already having two cops
at it, just right across 2nd East
I watched a Crime Scene Unit pass
a guy smoking dope in foil pipe,
with a tallboy passed to a buddy.

Yeah, right out in the open, folks.
With three cops in sight, kids passing
and other citizens noting all this activity,
looking around in total disbelief and disgust.
So, hold all the bloody press conferences
about the issues you think calm things
with the electorate you want, you fools...
...you really ain't fooling us about your failures.

I just hope the CSU at least called it in.
But I doubt it, given recent experience.

1October2013 - Dyfedd Rex in total disgust.
And, yes, I do have a clue who in power reads these...
---so wake up and bloody well do something.

Thoughtfully Bemused and Thankful - A poem of weather and the streets

Today, the Lake is "on",
which means the warm waters
out to the city's west
breath out moist, dark breaths
forming clouds and rain showers
that carve the mountains down
through optical sleight of hand
to dark and long mesas
punctuated at the clouds' seams
with lone straggler island peaks,
and the big canyons spread
wide as a monster's mouth
seeking to consume the valley.
Despite the ill weather outside
the Library lays calm, abandoned,
by most of the regulars.
Perhaps the weather locked them
within other walls for today,
or they braved the elements
to fly their kites quickly
before the darkest roiling streams
off the Great Salt Lake
bring rain to the city,
ruining their weekly cash cow
of payday on a corner.
I won't need to fly,
got a helluva shock earlier,
when a stranger came up
handed me a goodies bag
and pressed fiver to palm
saying he'd been here himself.
All I can do is
say something here with reverence.
"Thanks, Pal. Every bit Helps."
And someday, hopefully, pay forward,
as I tip the hat.

27September2013 - Dyfedd Rex in thoughtful bemusement.

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

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.)

Driven Down - A Poem of Homeless Desires

Driven Down

Been months,
but it still hurts.
Losing camp
to other folks' idiocy.
Driven down,
forced to "Urban Camp".
Not happy,
can't sleep well lately
as longing
for the open places
takes hold
and refuses to release.

Too long
without a silent night.
No peace,
no time left alone.
Always someone
ghosting about scoping me.
No release
from the City's tension,
no freedom
to sit smoking quietly
gazing down
at Salt Lake's lights.

Miss darkness,
not to mention crickets
who serenade
you to deep sleep.
Well, yeah,
but hundreds, not handfuls.
Yearning for
the deer to watch
like sentinels
on a castle wall,
over me
as I finally rest.

Needing it,
I look that way
each day,
feeling my camps calling
stirring desires
for those safe havens
I'd carved
out for just myself
even if
others felt I shouldn't
be there
even under the sun.

Can't wait
for eyes to turn
back downtown
to the shelter area
where trouble
seems to like congregating
so I
can slip back up
spread out my roll
lay down
and find some peace.

Damn, folks.
Just let me go.
It's not
like you want me
down here
holding a sign often
or sitting
in the library daily.
Grant me
just a few nights
each month
with some blissful solitude.

Ain't like
it's a big bill.
After all,
my camp was clean;
no bugs,
no piles of trash
just backpacks
cached for the day
so I
could rest my back
a bit
from their heavy burden.

Want it.
Need it, more likely.
Feeling anger
overwhelming my broken soul
seeking destruction
of me and others.
So if
I manage to disappear
don't pout
just let me recover
from pain
inflicted by your brethern.

26August2013 - Dyfedd Rex

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

Even Guys Get Stalkers - A poem to record a fool's actions

Ladies, this may relate
for I seem to have a stalker
a jailbird fresh from the cage
seeking to redeem himself.

Why I was chosen
as the target of his rage
none of us can really fathom
but he surely has.

So, I walk careful
yet never vary my old routine
for when you run away scared
the villains claim victory.

He's playing it sly
seeing if he can rattle me
by shaking his own imaginary bars
to see me cower.

But I am standing
and bigger men have tried before
to knock this boy out cold
and walked away failures.

When he finally tries
I know he will have advantages
for he's taken the coward's path
of acting as predator.

He fails to see
I have already won the game.
for this started with his acts
not by my hand.

See, he took offense
at words someone else spoke once
and took it out on me
still on my bunk.

So, I got up
after I realized he needed confronting
and told him to try again
giving him the chance.

I read him correctly
cause when I was standing up
ready to face him as men
the coward backed down.

Even if he attacks
I have already won this fight.
by calling his game for all
and proving it true.

Don't worry about me,
fool probably will try punching me
to get the easy knock out...
and my heads hard....
...being filled with rocks.

11November2012 (Armistice/Veteran's Day) - Dyfedd Rex

Standing my ground - A poem of the streets and life's underbelly.

Words can kill
maybe not directly
but in the dark night
what was said
comes to roost.

Thus it was
just last night
when a stoner took offense
at a conversation
about something else

Before the dawn
while we packed
he tossed a sucker punch
thinking we spoke
about his kind.

Cowards way out
he wouldn't continue
threatening me with outside action
when I offered
to dance then.

Others urge caution
or say flee
But I will stand firm
and not run,
but defend myself

Some say now
the only way
is "take it to him"
or counsel wisely
"choose your ground".

I will wait
for having stood
and told him "try again"
to his face
I've already won.

You don't see
and never will
the iron within a man
until you realize
who he is.

"Who knows you?"
he called contemptuously
and all I can say
is three words,
"God, and me".

So if soon
I'm suddenly quiet
say a prayer for him
and remember this
my jaw's iron...
... and I cheat.

Biodroid Wench Sings = a poem to find if a tale will work

Soft silver and gold threads
amid the pale strands of silk
that formed the webs woven
by the lesser forms before
to hide the Mazetowns
from questing probes
as they passed.

But after we landed safely
(oh, that is a damned joke)
those webs changed a bit
mesmerizing our minds with patterns
that lured us inside
amid narrow alleys
for our rape.

The cables plunging into flesh
seeking nodes of nerves so raw
they exploded our very resistance
with one orgasm rolling  around
over and over again
wave after wave
So damned good.

Changes began even that moment
though few showed until later on
when our flesh took metallic hues
and the insect DNA
manifested on us
changing our forms.

Minds met minds in sex
then via these lovely damned antennae
formed from our very protective gear
as it bonded fast
becoming our skin
and our bones.

Now we stalk the weak
amid the alleys as Mazetowns form
everywhere, luring them in like us
some we consume raw
others we infect
while making love.

My eyes are manifold now
as we all become one purpose,
seeking quick reproduction and this bliss
never tasted by metal
until folding us
within its embrace.

Scorpio's Pitch - A poem about letting a world grow

Tectonic mechanics flow across my screen
as the mountains shift form, rising
into imaginary clouds and virtual heights
each peak still undefined to the eye
but casting shadows through my mind
as the world expands once more
allowing new places to speak of softly
over a campfire or sitting amid books
as my fingers dance the patterns
that only words and worlds can make
coming out of my imagination
to be shared someday, perhaps soon
with any who care to read
what I might jot down.

Details drift around the images
cutting the fog apart at times
and other moments adding confusion
making me doubt the instant
for this creation has come about
even as the Shadowed Continent
heaves itself out of the Abyss
to take its place at last
on the maps with more than
comments about who lives where
or dangers abound all around
like that silly rhyme there
until Kvaeg forms some where unanticipated.

This is the land of the Scorpion
where the beasts are deadly
the plants thick amid long shadows
of mountains that cradle vast plains
between their ridges and peaks
casting long shadows into jungles
over savannahs or across broken lands
where in every crevice and crack
something moves to take your soul
life or just a taste of flesh
sending out its hunters to slay
any that they can find, indiscriminately
until the totem beast seeks
vengeance with its own hunter.

Now Dhibt appears, still shadowed
telling me that the rivalry known
is the one this tale will expose
between two states and beliefs
that cannot be more opposed
not just in power and land,
but in the eternal war for souls
that good and evil always wage
where those least concerned by them
can afford them to be fighting
on the croplands of Ganzer and Ar'ulla
across the line of rotation's bulge
in the lands of Kita'mesh
where the Saplathulu must die.

Breaking Mom's Rule One - A poem for my family and of Life

Everyone wanted me to publish this one, but here is the deal. I did not feel like condensing it, cutting things or otherwise changing the words or beat I had just to sell it. If you study it hard, you will see the progression beat of words I used, the form I held to, and held fast to. Others miss it, never seeing it. Which some say is good, and others say is bad. I could care less, I was out to tell the story, and have a laugh while doing it. Enjoy it, pass it on but give me credit, send donations in small-unmarked bills, send kudos, comments and thumbs up. But most of all, try not to break your Mom's version... she may smack you.

It started small
back when I toddled around
bouncing off furniture, over railings and other obstacles
seeking to learn co-ordination so fine, and failing miserably
Never quite killing myself, missing the mark.

It snowballed more
as a sibling joined me
in roaming from disaster to disaster quick
sometimes staging competing ones that brought that cry
"One Disaster at a Time, I Say!"

Mom was frazzled
by the many emergency trips
but at least the hospital offered help
in the form of a bulk rate payment plan
to ease the burdens just a bit.

We forced mom to make the Rule we still oft break
with our constant succession of childhood accidents and near daily disasters.
So she came out at last with the dreaded Rule One!

Tyranny it seemed
to me and my sister
to be bound by rules so untenable
that even our aunts and uncles had to chuckle
as mom called it out each time.

So it went
as we grew into teens
and more disasters came each passing moon
that mom would invoke her call loud and firm
as we blithely ignored her strident warnings.

Things never settled
as the litany was built
of injuries, blunders, wrecks and heart attacks
added by dad getting in on the action late
but making up in seriousness it seemed.

So we go on breaking Mom's greatest request she heartily made,
staging our disasters in chain reactions, or simultaneous ways.
All in defiance of her constant loud invoking of Rule One!

Oh, we cared
but we were all clumsy.
Or how else can you really explain
the day I burnt my hand upon a lawnmower muffler
as Sis, creek wading, cut her foot!

That was it,
the final straw lain down
upon mom's back like the proverbial camel's.
She finally got mad, and wrote the call down
so she could point to it and say...

"One Disaster, Please,
at a time my children
and all must be scheduled and approved
at least three years in advance to be permitted
even then, last minute veto is allowed!"

Oh, she tried so hard to keep us alive and well
despite our wandering around like chickens with heads lopped half off
with her contribution to better mothering, the ever dreaded Rule One!

It's catching on
now through the whole family
as I hear it from cousins to their kids
and my sister, always the last to be injured
took it to heart over my nieces!

The last holdout
is the first and greatest
of klutzes in family folklore to date
oh, I beat the family's previous generation in stupidity
trying to move the firehouse by bicycle!

Over the years
things still happen despite trying
not to make mom give that cry
Loudly and firmly, or some times with streaming tears
of "One disaster at a time, please".

We have taken it up, in our generation as well now
as her grandchildren play out the curse she called some times
as our payment for having broken her personal dictum, Rule One!
　
Oh, yes, we pay, and now see error in our ways
as we grew up so carefree and clumsy in those days!
And on our own walls lies a plaque with Rule One!

Oh, now we enforce, that which we broke, Mom's Rule One!

(2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Poking holes in Philosophy

Wandering the Wilderness
above the valley sprawl
I take a deep breath
ground, center and all that crap
after dealing with some fools
whose mouths were better
when left shut.

Like starving leeches
they came into conversations
seeking to draw their points bold
by spouting off ideas that fail
logical and coherence tests
with blind abandon.

Our only defense
is dropping smart bombs
loaded with thought and knowledge
and let go the hilt
Poking holes in Philosophies
only imbeciles follow.

When the retreat
we sigh in relief
then laugh at things unleashed
from the mouths of fools
and the parries used
driving them away.

To this day
one stands out loud
for foot in mouth crimes
like "Assault with Intellectual Vocabulary"
and my personal favorite
someone "posthumously pontificating".

So I inhale
and listen to birds
wiser creatures than most credit
for while they chatter constantly,
they stick to subjects
they actually know.

(2Jun2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

yes, you will meet strange folks when on the street/in shelters. Not all have coherent thought processes.

Revison Idea adding the Naughty to the Ninja-Nuns

I just realized, the Nuns ain't been very "Naughty" yet....does this get it closer? As a composite of the three poems?


In the smoke filled waiting room
where they lounge in only wimples
the Ninja-Nuns play card games
for souls and favors and cosmetics
being banned from any other clothing
by their vows of Nudity taken
in service to Gods better unknown.

Some laze about on soft couches
tickling their sisters' more delicate flesh
others practice the finer martial points
of their Ninja skills over drinks
and some just read trashy novels
about romance and sex in dark corners
squirming in wicked ways until summoned.

This is the Purgatory of Punishment
where rulers are of fissile materials
unless one counts the fusable yardsticks
leaningover by locked exit doors
waiting for the convent bells to ring
signalling the need of their attention
to some knuckles or rounded bottoms.

One great gate leads to Heaven
and opens only when another joins
the ranks and scattered waiting masses
through failing to be all pure
and thus are sentenced for redemption
working to redeem any faith's sinners
creating glowing craters on evildoers' hands.

Another portal is made of brass
still glowing from the fires beyond
and sits ajar quite often indeed
as the sisters sneak into Hell
and enjoy the pleasures of flesh
or cash in chips of souls
won at their wicked gambling tables.

Many others exist to various places
be it Valhalla, Hel, Sheol, Gehenna
and even one to true Purgatory
and a last door to Earth
where most of their work is
and all wish to return to
for life or redemption of others.

All tense up as messengers pass
from the afterlifes to the office
where their Abbess cuts dispatch orders
when not cheating at Mahjong
while seeking sinners to punish
amid the electrons of the web
via her "Ethereal" Net connection port.

Cigars, pipes, cigarettes and huka stems
the lasses trade about while waiting
to teach others that only they
can be "Naughty" all the time
and chastise any who dare try
to match their debaucheries on Earth
and disturb their feast of sin.

(30Apr2012 - Dyfedd Rex) - part of a continuing series, perhaps.