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.

Scorched Earth of the Spiritual Flamethrowers of Rejections - A Poem of Jobhunting and Loathing in America

Unless you've been here
you ain't got a clue
about how it digs in
eating your soul from inside
when jobs finally reply
months after applied for
with that form rejection
saying they are moving on
with other, more qualified folks.

This is my dilemma,
the pain I deal with
as I try moving forward
only to get kicked hard
in that awkward place
that makes one walk
lopsided, even just spiritually.
Hope dies with each one,
as hate and disgust grow.

Been expecting it, really.
This total turn away
from a guy who tries
to keep his own faith
while dealing with others,
and not intruding in theirs.
Temptations abound about me,
drugs, booze, or others.
But I still drive on.

Phone is back on.
Against my better judgement,
and I have to try again,
diving into the web tomorrow
to find a job of some sort
even just something foolish
as asking about fries or drinks
to go with that entree.
Not sure I want to try.

Been nearly three years now,
and not sure I have
what it takes to come back
from this ass-whupping
I've been taking all along.
The spirit is broken,
the body is worn,
and my mind is wandering
amid dreams burnt to ashes.

Rejection is so awful,
like a spiritual flamethrower,
aimed into the heart
of each person you see
who is down on their luck.
Maybe Hump-day, perhaps,
would be better choice
to dive over this cliff
and give it another shot.

Not today, that's for sure.
Still stinging from two more
silent killer cruise missiles
launched by soulless drones
called Human Resources departments,
filled with uncaring munitions
that create scorched earth
where once hope and imagination
laid out a bright future.

Yeah, you do that damage
with each of those letters
sent to one without anything
to get by on now,
save that piece of cardboard
I promised not to hold
on some street corner
for another month or so
and give it one more try.

Then again, who knows
maybe this is the week,
month or year I break
this long losing streak.
Yeah, and perhaps this year
the Cubs have a shot,
the Utes win through
and I get a job.
Well, one out of three?
...Please?

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
(who's still pretty disgusted with America and society)

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.