The sky burned pink
above the Oqquirhs this morn,
telling me, along with aches
the body talks with,
more snow's coming.
Yet the chilly air
did not taste of moisture,
all that wrung out slowly
the last few days
by the inversion.
White clad mountains sat
under that salmon tinged vault,
a band nearly a handspan
above the valley's horizon,
touched with beauty.
Few see this sight,
or take that crucial moment,
to slow down, look around,
inhale a breath deep,
and just enjoy.
For most, the cold
means warming their cars up,
even against the current law
about idling that long,
for their comfort.
Somedays, I feel alone,
the only one enjoying such,
a tiny person amid masses
of rock and ice
that ring me.
Others, someone notes it,
speaks up about the beauty
and leaves me with hope
that not all suffer
blindness to nature.
As I sit here,
sipping coffee, the moment gone,
I wish for a camera,
to share that moment
and its serenity
with others.
12Jan2016 - A Peaceful and thoughtful Dyfedd Rex.
Showing posts with label People Watching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label People Watching. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Smoking Lizard is Walking, Now. - A poem of bad drivers of winter
Smoking Lizard is back,
confined to tennis shoes, nowadays,
no wheel in his hand while wandering,
just the feet to command
as he steers flesh.
Amid pea-soup fog,
he guides me along sidewalks
crusted over with many slick ices,
black, white, and crunchy remains
of snow never shoveled.
He turns my head,
as I shuffle along slow,
noting the idiots out driving around,
too many to count accurately,
driving like it's dry.
He makes the feet
seek the few dry spots
or salt trails dribbled out thick
where the sanders spilled loads
as they prepped roads.
His wariness is there,
that old survival instinct intact,
finding the safe places to step,
letting me note the idiots
making risky driving decisions.
One foolish pickup rolls
out from the corner convenience,
pulling out across two traffic lanes,
fishtailing into the turning zone
between double yellow lines.
Another blazing down hill
lays on his horn loud,
never trying to slow breakneck speed
having run the red light,
sliding across the road.
Both roll down windows,
scream profanities, toss hand gestures,
then keep on their destructive quest
to find an early grave,
crunching into things soon.
Another revs his engine,
sitting at the stop light,
raging at the fact he's late
not seeing how far out
his hood now sits.
All this, and more,
like ice rivers flowing wetly,
waiting to bring my aching body
down to hard, waiting concrete,
the Lizard avoids easily.
Pipe clenched between teeth,
the Lizard brain just grins,
as he dances me along paths
he's been eyeing for weeks,
knowing what inversions bring.
Face wreathed in smoke,
I let him keep control,
trusting the lizard brain's decisions utterly
against those of distracted drivers,
who text on ice.
The fog thickens more,
as I reach a goal,
the diner, where I now write,
relaying the moves of fools,
while Smoking Lizard preens,
having succeeded again
in preserving
me.
With Caution, Wisdom, and
skills honed by long decades
of being in charge while smoking.
Me, I let him gloat,
until he screws up.
HE just grins,
and puffs,
content
with getting
me safely here.
7Jan2016 - A very smug Smoking Lizard, or is that Dyfedd Rex? Never can tell after a walk like this.
confined to tennis shoes, nowadays,
no wheel in his hand while wandering,
just the feet to command
as he steers flesh.
Amid pea-soup fog,
he guides me along sidewalks
crusted over with many slick ices,
black, white, and crunchy remains
of snow never shoveled.
He turns my head,
as I shuffle along slow,
noting the idiots out driving around,
too many to count accurately,
driving like it's dry.
He makes the feet
seek the few dry spots
or salt trails dribbled out thick
where the sanders spilled loads
as they prepped roads.
His wariness is there,
that old survival instinct intact,
finding the safe places to step,
letting me note the idiots
making risky driving decisions.
One foolish pickup rolls
out from the corner convenience,
pulling out across two traffic lanes,
fishtailing into the turning zone
between double yellow lines.
Another blazing down hill
lays on his horn loud,
never trying to slow breakneck speed
having run the red light,
sliding across the road.
Both roll down windows,
scream profanities, toss hand gestures,
then keep on their destructive quest
to find an early grave,
crunching into things soon.
Another revs his engine,
sitting at the stop light,
raging at the fact he's late
not seeing how far out
his hood now sits.
All this, and more,
like ice rivers flowing wetly,
waiting to bring my aching body
down to hard, waiting concrete,
the Lizard avoids easily.
Pipe clenched between teeth,
the Lizard brain just grins,
as he dances me along paths
he's been eyeing for weeks,
knowing what inversions bring.
Face wreathed in smoke,
I let him keep control,
trusting the lizard brain's decisions utterly
against those of distracted drivers,
who text on ice.
The fog thickens more,
as I reach a goal,
the diner, where I now write,
relaying the moves of fools,
while Smoking Lizard preens,
having succeeded again
in preserving
me.
With Caution, Wisdom, and
skills honed by long decades
of being in charge while smoking.
Me, I let him gloat,
until he screws up.
HE just grins,
and puffs,
content
with getting
me safely here.
7Jan2016 - A very smug Smoking Lizard, or is that Dyfedd Rex? Never can tell after a walk like this.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Commentary I wanted attached to "The Shelter Kid's Walk"
Hi. I'm Dave, and I'm homeless, jobless, and not seeing an end to it soon. But this is not about me.
This is about the things being this way have opened my eyes to, issues we as a Society need to unite to fix. Left and Right, Democrat or Republican, set those labels aside, folks. This is about being good people, honest stewards seeking prosperity for our posterity. Not just the ones we created, but the kids of those around us.
The worst part of being homeless is not lacking shelter, the ever present threat of death, the fear of being robbed, or any other. At least not among the ones I know best.
We look at a certain street here in Salt Lake City, Utah, and say this: "Who concocted up this damned fool idea". But, as the homeless are only represented by proxies, often self-appointed folks who either knew homeless people or suffered a stint themselves, or just well-meaning do-gooders who only see actions they take, not the results, this never seems to percolate out to the rest of you.
Those who have visited or know Salt Lake probably have heard the tales and warnings about the place I have come to call "Hell's Block", the area where much of the homeless services are concentrated, around the Road Home Shelter, the Bishop Weigand Center. and the St. Vincent's chow hall. South Rio Grande Street, the 200 block. Also known as "Crack Alley", even though now the use of this new "synthetic marijuana" called on the streets "Spice" or "Spizzle", has taken over that area's addiction issues.
The problem? Simple. That concentration of troubles on that street draws the worst there as well to offer the dark side of homelessness. Addicts, dealers, and all the other issues like street prostitution, theft, and violence, right at the door to the shelter used by, yes, families with kids.
And to make matters worse, during the winter months, that chow hall doubles at night as the "Drunk Tank", to give some shelter to those of the homeless who get too intoxicated for admission into the shelter itself. So early evenings and first thing in the morning, all the problems of addiction and crime seem to be right there, for those families and kids to weave through as they seek aid, try to get to school, or just come in or out that door after a day away from "Hell's Block".
How bad is it for these families in the "Emergency Overflow" and "Intake" process that are housed there? Let me give you a sample, from my very own eyes, and guided in noting everything by one of the drunks, a guy who I call a friend, who is just as outraged at it. Yes, some of the drunks hate having the kids exposed to it, and think this is an abomination before God.
New Year's morning, we headed down there, to catch a ride to one of the churches that provides a day long meal gathering to aid the homeless, as most of the services there, including the chow hall, don't function on some holidays. That bus picked folks going there up in the worst place of all to wait. On the spit covered sidewalks of the east side of Rio Grande, across that lane, and it really is that when you consider the amount of jaywalking foot traffic, street using pedestrians trying to avoid the clusters around those selling and using drugs, and the fights that boil off the sidewalks onto the arena floor of that paved way.
Right at their door, to either side, lay those either too stoned to stand or unconscious from their usage. flopped out on the sidewalk, which, though wide, gets very narrow due to the press of folks there all day, seeking free hand-outs or just waiting to get back into the shelter or tank. In the quarter of a block (and blocks, for those not familiar with Salt Lake, are a bit longer than normal cities here) they must weave through five more clusters of the upright and prone users and dealers, all while avoiding one of the female homeless who is doing a near stripper walk (sans disrobing, but she busted all the pole dancer moves) seeking to sell her body for a share of a high, or one of her own, I could not determine which. Then there was the small turf war over who got to sell on that side of the street, and the fights evoked from those who had yet to pay for some high or another. Again, was that a dealer, or fellow user he argued with, as they drifted into the street posturing for a fight?
That was just to get to the cross walk, often ignored by those who turn onto Rio Grande headed south, where accidents are fairly common. Once across, you have two mobile addicts doing various searches for "snipes", butts of cigarettes and joints tossed aside once used, for that little bit of a free high or smoke those provide, one guy doing the "tweaker", or meth-head, "Spin-cycle" gyrations, and another bent over as if touching his toes, but unable to decide if what he sees is real, wrapped deep in the hallucinations and mini-seizure twitches that mark users of spice. All this while walking through what I have termed "The Drog" a narcotic smog, that permeates that air there nearly all hours of the day, save the most bitter or stormiest. Just to get on a bus to a free feed.
They have to deal with this every damned day. Even to get the kids on the school buses, to head the three long blocks to the free clinic for help, cross the street and back from the Weigand Center for other aids provided there, such as vouchers for clothes, transit passes and the like, or just get them out to some where else to play. An atmosphere so foul, in language, aromas of filthy people who have not washed clothes or selves in weeks, vomit, the smokes of all sort, the normal inversion smog most of the valley floor deals
This is about the things being this way have opened my eyes to, issues we as a Society need to unite to fix. Left and Right, Democrat or Republican, set those labels aside, folks. This is about being good people, honest stewards seeking prosperity for our posterity. Not just the ones we created, but the kids of those around us.
The worst part of being homeless is not lacking shelter, the ever present threat of death, the fear of being robbed, or any other. At least not among the ones I know best.
We look at a certain street here in Salt Lake City, Utah, and say this: "Who concocted up this damned fool idea". But, as the homeless are only represented by proxies, often self-appointed folks who either knew homeless people or suffered a stint themselves, or just well-meaning do-gooders who only see actions they take, not the results, this never seems to percolate out to the rest of you.
Those who have visited or know Salt Lake probably have heard the tales and warnings about the place I have come to call "Hell's Block", the area where much of the homeless services are concentrated, around the Road Home Shelter, the Bishop Weigand Center. and the St. Vincent's chow hall. South Rio Grande Street, the 200 block. Also known as "Crack Alley", even though now the use of this new "synthetic marijuana" called on the streets "Spice" or "Spizzle", has taken over that area's addiction issues.
The problem? Simple. That concentration of troubles on that street draws the worst there as well to offer the dark side of homelessness. Addicts, dealers, and all the other issues like street prostitution, theft, and violence, right at the door to the shelter used by, yes, families with kids.
And to make matters worse, during the winter months, that chow hall doubles at night as the "Drunk Tank", to give some shelter to those of the homeless who get too intoxicated for admission into the shelter itself. So early evenings and first thing in the morning, all the problems of addiction and crime seem to be right there, for those families and kids to weave through as they seek aid, try to get to school, or just come in or out that door after a day away from "Hell's Block".
How bad is it for these families in the "Emergency Overflow" and "Intake" process that are housed there? Let me give you a sample, from my very own eyes, and guided in noting everything by one of the drunks, a guy who I call a friend, who is just as outraged at it. Yes, some of the drunks hate having the kids exposed to it, and think this is an abomination before God.
New Year's morning, we headed down there, to catch a ride to one of the churches that provides a day long meal gathering to aid the homeless, as most of the services there, including the chow hall, don't function on some holidays. That bus picked folks going there up in the worst place of all to wait. On the spit covered sidewalks of the east side of Rio Grande, across that lane, and it really is that when you consider the amount of jaywalking foot traffic, street using pedestrians trying to avoid the clusters around those selling and using drugs, and the fights that boil off the sidewalks onto the arena floor of that paved way.
Right at their door, to either side, lay those either too stoned to stand or unconscious from their usage. flopped out on the sidewalk, which, though wide, gets very narrow due to the press of folks there all day, seeking free hand-outs or just waiting to get back into the shelter or tank. In the quarter of a block (and blocks, for those not familiar with Salt Lake, are a bit longer than normal cities here) they must weave through five more clusters of the upright and prone users and dealers, all while avoiding one of the female homeless who is doing a near stripper walk (sans disrobing, but she busted all the pole dancer moves) seeking to sell her body for a share of a high, or one of her own, I could not determine which. Then there was the small turf war over who got to sell on that side of the street, and the fights evoked from those who had yet to pay for some high or another. Again, was that a dealer, or fellow user he argued with, as they drifted into the street posturing for a fight?
That was just to get to the cross walk, often ignored by those who turn onto Rio Grande headed south, where accidents are fairly common. Once across, you have two mobile addicts doing various searches for "snipes", butts of cigarettes and joints tossed aside once used, for that little bit of a free high or smoke those provide, one guy doing the "tweaker", or meth-head, "Spin-cycle" gyrations, and another bent over as if touching his toes, but unable to decide if what he sees is real, wrapped deep in the hallucinations and mini-seizure twitches that mark users of spice. All this while walking through what I have termed "The Drog" a narcotic smog, that permeates that air there nearly all hours of the day, save the most bitter or stormiest. Just to get on a bus to a free feed.
They have to deal with this every damned day. Even to get the kids on the school buses, to head the three long blocks to the free clinic for help, cross the street and back from the Weigand Center for other aids provided there, such as vouchers for clothes, transit passes and the like, or just get them out to some where else to play. An atmosphere so foul, in language, aromas of filthy people who have not washed clothes or selves in weeks, vomit, the smokes of all sort, the normal inversion smog most of the valley floor deals
Monday, January 13, 2014
never look at the news. - advice and commentary
Okay, I looked. Mea Culpa. Now, I cannot stop laughing and groaning over the fact that the boy that inspired me to create Troy Tanner and CRAPP is back at it again.
That jester named Dyer claims he has yet another dead Sasquatch/Bigfoot to show the world. This time in Texas. As with the last time, he claims to killed it well before, and had it tested and confirmed.
I have to say it now. One word, and I bet others agree.
Bullshit.
This is the same moron and friends from the fiasco in 2008. Remember them having one in a freezer down in Georgia? While it would be fun if it was real, my money is on it being yet another hoax. But, I guarantee you, I will both rework and sell the first Troy Tanner story I wrote, about that fiasco, and a new one, sending them out to publishers to make fun of him as I try making a few bucks and get folks to giggle or laugh out loud.
Oh, yeah. That's why I read the news. You never know when the Muses are speaking through the mass media.
That jester named Dyer claims he has yet another dead Sasquatch/Bigfoot to show the world. This time in Texas. As with the last time, he claims to killed it well before, and had it tested and confirmed.
I have to say it now. One word, and I bet others agree.
Bullshit.
This is the same moron and friends from the fiasco in 2008. Remember them having one in a freezer down in Georgia? While it would be fun if it was real, my money is on it being yet another hoax. But, I guarantee you, I will both rework and sell the first Troy Tanner story I wrote, about that fiasco, and a new one, sending them out to publishers to make fun of him as I try making a few bucks and get folks to giggle or laugh out loud.
Oh, yeah. That's why I read the news. You never know when the Muses are speaking through the mass media.
Drifters' Season - A Poem of the Streets
Like an over-due migration,
the Drifter's Season is upon us
out here on the cold streets
as the homeless begin moving
seeking greener pastrues now
with the end of Giving Season.
Some are just discouraged,
beaten down too many damned times,
denied a chance to find footing
that let's them rejoin stand up
with just some dignity
as they claw back into Society.
Others are always movers,
drifting from place to distant place,
seeking to remain in perpetual obscurity,
to continue their evil ways,
be it criminal actions
or drug abuse and alcoholic bouts.
Been told fervent good-byes
four times in as many days.
Folks heading to places seeking warmth,
job opportunities, or just leaving.
Happens about every January,
this strange migration to other places.
Some just outright disappear,
no farewells or warning to others,
just fade off into the distance
leaving friends with no clue
if they are safe,
as they leave town in silence.
Before next full moon
I expect to see fewer folks
I know among the milling crowds
as they drift away slowly
each to some place
where they feel a chance awaits.
So, Safe Journeys, Travelers.
Keep the faith as you leave,
and if it don't work out,
remember, we'll still be around
though our own feet
might feel that itch to travel.
And if we stay,
don't chastise us for sticking around,
remember, we all drift about ocassionally,
even if just in where
we hold our signs
as we seek our way out.
13January2014 - Dyfedd Rex
the Drifter's Season is upon us
out here on the cold streets
as the homeless begin moving
seeking greener pastrues now
with the end of Giving Season.
Some are just discouraged,
beaten down too many damned times,
denied a chance to find footing
that let's them rejoin stand up
with just some dignity
as they claw back into Society.
Others are always movers,
drifting from place to distant place,
seeking to remain in perpetual obscurity,
to continue their evil ways,
be it criminal actions
or drug abuse and alcoholic bouts.
Been told fervent good-byes
four times in as many days.
Folks heading to places seeking warmth,
job opportunities, or just leaving.
Happens about every January,
this strange migration to other places.
Some just outright disappear,
no farewells or warning to others,
just fade off into the distance
leaving friends with no clue
if they are safe,
as they leave town in silence.
Before next full moon
I expect to see fewer folks
I know among the milling crowds
as they drift away slowly
each to some place
where they feel a chance awaits.
So, Safe Journeys, Travelers.
Keep the faith as you leave,
and if it don't work out,
remember, we'll still be around
though our own feet
might feel that itch to travel.
And if we stay,
don't chastise us for sticking around,
remember, we all drift about ocassionally,
even if just in where
we hold our signs
as we seek our way out.
13January2014 - Dyfedd Rex
Thursday, December 26, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, September 30, 2013
The Cart People - A Poem of the Streets
Clatter of wheels
across the pavement's seams
announce their slow, erratic approach.
All they currently own
in shopping carts.
Every fall morning,
and most summer ones,
finds them moving about town
only noticed by others
when blocking paths.
They shift about the town
one day here, another there,
but always end up there,
at some park seeking rest.
Belongings piled high
in those stolen carts,
though most claim they're "borrowed",
bikes in one hand
cart in other.
Their daily journey
is a herald's cry
of daylight's breaking just shortly
or sunset's recent occurrence
amid the darkness.
They roll around our cities,
lost souls of the nation,
battered by their Life's travails
or destroyed by Narcotics' Lure.
Pride still resides
within some of them,
unbroken by Society's uncaring hearts
while others are shattered
by wheel's rhythm.
I see them
every morning while waiting
for the Library to open
and know their sins
and virtues too.
For amid their long journeys
are problems I have avoided,
at least for the moment
some by choice, others, Luck.
Regardless of weather,
they rumble along streets,
some carrying cans they scavenged
others just their bedrolls
among other goods.
Look at them!
Know your own danger
of joining their beaten populace
by a single mistake
or an addiction!
They shift about the city
rolling their homes slowly along
seeking shelter, maybe even redemption,
or the oblivion drugs offer.
30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
across the pavement's seams
announce their slow, erratic approach.
All they currently own
in shopping carts.
Every fall morning,
and most summer ones,
finds them moving about town
only noticed by others
when blocking paths.
They shift about the town
one day here, another there,
but always end up there,
at some park seeking rest.
Belongings piled high
in those stolen carts,
though most claim they're "borrowed",
bikes in one hand
cart in other.
Their daily journey
is a herald's cry
of daylight's breaking just shortly
or sunset's recent occurrence
amid the darkness.
They roll around our cities,
lost souls of the nation,
battered by their Life's travails
or destroyed by Narcotics' Lure.
Pride still resides
within some of them,
unbroken by Society's uncaring hearts
while others are shattered
by wheel's rhythm.
I see them
every morning while waiting
for the Library to open
and know their sins
and virtues too.
For amid their long journeys
are problems I have avoided,
at least for the moment
some by choice, others, Luck.
Regardless of weather,
they rumble along streets,
some carrying cans they scavenged
others just their bedrolls
among other goods.
Look at them!
Know your own danger
of joining their beaten populace
by a single mistake
or an addiction!
They shift about the city
rolling their homes slowly along
seeking shelter, maybe even redemption,
or the oblivion drugs offer.
30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
The Addicts - A Poem of the Streets
Mistaking their DT's
for chilly morning shivers,
you'll see them bundled up,
even those rare warm Autumn days
when the mercury rests higher
than their coats indicate
as they wander.
You know them
by their dirty blankets,
folded around them like skirts,
or turned into full body sheaths,
looking like grey mummy wrappings,
or a zombie's tatters,
our drugged undead.
These are the ruined souls,
spoilers for the we few
who avoided Addiction's siren song.
They wander about
twitching for many reasons;
some still riding their highs,
others crashing into detoxification's danse macabre
as their night of using
catches up to them
with a vengeance.
Mistaking their intentions,
you'll cross the street
or shift off onto grass
avoiding their haunted gazes while passing
their antics and angry displays
trying to avoid them
but still failing.
These are those cast aside
by even the most pious
for heeding Narcotics' damning call.
Some wander steady,
others stagger about slowly,
never given a moment's notice
until they collapse from severe reaction
to their dark, personal demons
in some public place
during daylight hours.
A rare few
manage with stuttering steps
to move about the park
despite levels of intoxication rarely seen
outside their own little cliques
surviving it, means unknown,
despite tempting Death.
They are just lost souls,
seeking some dark, strange release
from the pains of Life.
Many younger ones
live only short lives,
seeing this lonely, homeless life
as their long, fun, final party.
Which leaves me to ask:
Why is this so,
who crushed hope?
Even older ones
see naught but fun
in this dark ballet performed
upon the cold, bleak cement ways.
It's just a long celebration
as they slowly descend
into another Hell.
They are fogged in wanderers
drifting about amid Drugs' murk
No purpose, besides scoring highs.
There's no answer
to ending this shit.
Forgive that word, but realize,
it's the only one that fits.
For what else says it
about lives torn apart
by various Narcotics?
They are lost,
perhaps still with chances
to break their dark cycles
of abusing various substances each day,
but lacking a reason to,
or failing to see
their approaching deaths.
These are your lost children,
siblings, friends, maybe even parents.
Lost by lack of care...
...from a callous broken Society.
30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
for chilly morning shivers,
you'll see them bundled up,
even those rare warm Autumn days
when the mercury rests higher
than their coats indicate
as they wander.
You know them
by their dirty blankets,
folded around them like skirts,
or turned into full body sheaths,
looking like grey mummy wrappings,
or a zombie's tatters,
our drugged undead.
These are the ruined souls,
spoilers for the we few
who avoided Addiction's siren song.
They wander about
twitching for many reasons;
some still riding their highs,
others crashing into detoxification's danse macabre
as their night of using
catches up to them
with a vengeance.
Mistaking their intentions,
you'll cross the street
or shift off onto grass
avoiding their haunted gazes while passing
their antics and angry displays
trying to avoid them
but still failing.
These are those cast aside
by even the most pious
for heeding Narcotics' damning call.
Some wander steady,
others stagger about slowly,
never given a moment's notice
until they collapse from severe reaction
to their dark, personal demons
in some public place
during daylight hours.
A rare few
manage with stuttering steps
to move about the park
despite levels of intoxication rarely seen
outside their own little cliques
surviving it, means unknown,
despite tempting Death.
They are just lost souls,
seeking some dark, strange release
from the pains of Life.
Many younger ones
live only short lives,
seeing this lonely, homeless life
as their long, fun, final party.
Which leaves me to ask:
Why is this so,
who crushed hope?
Even older ones
see naught but fun
in this dark ballet performed
upon the cold, bleak cement ways.
It's just a long celebration
as they slowly descend
into another Hell.
They are fogged in wanderers
drifting about amid Drugs' murk
No purpose, besides scoring highs.
There's no answer
to ending this shit.
Forgive that word, but realize,
it's the only one that fits.
For what else says it
about lives torn apart
by various Narcotics?
They are lost,
perhaps still with chances
to break their dark cycles
of abusing various substances each day,
but lacking a reason to,
or failing to see
their approaching deaths.
These are your lost children,
siblings, friends, maybe even parents.
Lost by lack of care...
...from a callous broken Society.
30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
The Storm Drives Them In - A poem of the streets.
Now the Wasatch hide
silver and grey viels
of rain, maybe snow,
washing their stones clean
from the muck stirred
by winds off desert.
The drunks roll in,
tired, dirty, and smelly,
the reek of vodka
mingles with mouthwash now
in elevators and restrooms
as they shuffle about.
Outside, when I smoked,
one of the tweakers
stood marching in place
between the light-rail tracks
screaming at folks walking
to work or lunch.
You can always tell
it's the first storm
by the clothing worn.
Most still wear shorts,
or jeans mostly tattered,
not good, warm gear.
Now they regret tossing
those bags of clothes
give Labor Day weekend
during feeds in parks
or from the churches,
tossed aside so carelessly.
Too many wear flops,
instead of real shoes.
I know they had
just few weeks ago,
but sold for hits
of their preferred drug.
Not sure about where
or when the spice-monkeys,
as we call them,
will drift inside finally
from their potpourri induced
sit in to oblivion.
The junkies sneak about,
looking for easy targets
to snag sellable items
to fund their binges
but are being followed
by the security guards.
Valley is clearing out,
as folks drift shelter-ward,
seeking to be inside
or at least praying
they open the drunk-tank
a week early now.
I've got the gear
to deal with it.
Save one item outstanding,
my jacket's is AWOL,
left in a car
with a good friend.
The jacket will arrive,
on its own soon,
or at least shortly,
as he gets off
from his job later
and swings by here.
I have no worries,
I like early storms
they drive away druggies
and let me enjoy
air cleared of allergens,
namely, what they smoke.
Sprinkles dot the pavement
out on Library Square
as I watch them
drifting to dry places.
Locomotive tweaker, chugging arms,
tells fliers are resigning.
I might head out,
find a corner open
due to the weather
as few hold signs
in bad weather now,
until wallets loosen more.
I ain't after much,
when my kite's deployed,
just tomorrow's coffee cup
and ounce of tobacco,
maybe a bit more
but not seeking riches.
East and west both,
the mountains fade away
as the storm claims
the vistas I enjoy
this desk so much
for sharing so freely.
Looking around the floor,
it's filling up fast.
The storm achieves what
the cops could not,
clearing the cold streets
of those laying about.
25September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
silver and grey viels
of rain, maybe snow,
washing their stones clean
from the muck stirred
by winds off desert.
The drunks roll in,
tired, dirty, and smelly,
the reek of vodka
mingles with mouthwash now
in elevators and restrooms
as they shuffle about.
Outside, when I smoked,
one of the tweakers
stood marching in place
between the light-rail tracks
screaming at folks walking
to work or lunch.
You can always tell
it's the first storm
by the clothing worn.
Most still wear shorts,
or jeans mostly tattered,
not good, warm gear.
Now they regret tossing
those bags of clothes
give Labor Day weekend
during feeds in parks
or from the churches,
tossed aside so carelessly.
Too many wear flops,
instead of real shoes.
I know they had
just few weeks ago,
but sold for hits
of their preferred drug.
Not sure about where
or when the spice-monkeys,
as we call them,
will drift inside finally
from their potpourri induced
sit in to oblivion.
The junkies sneak about,
looking for easy targets
to snag sellable items
to fund their binges
but are being followed
by the security guards.
Valley is clearing out,
as folks drift shelter-ward,
seeking to be inside
or at least praying
they open the drunk-tank
a week early now.
I've got the gear
to deal with it.
Save one item outstanding,
my jacket's is AWOL,
left in a car
with a good friend.
The jacket will arrive,
on its own soon,
or at least shortly,
as he gets off
from his job later
and swings by here.
I have no worries,
I like early storms
they drive away druggies
and let me enjoy
air cleared of allergens,
namely, what they smoke.
Sprinkles dot the pavement
out on Library Square
as I watch them
drifting to dry places.
Locomotive tweaker, chugging arms,
tells fliers are resigning.
I might head out,
find a corner open
due to the weather
as few hold signs
in bad weather now,
until wallets loosen more.
I ain't after much,
when my kite's deployed,
just tomorrow's coffee cup
and ounce of tobacco,
maybe a bit more
but not seeking riches.
East and west both,
the mountains fade away
as the storm claims
the vistas I enjoy
this desk so much
for sharing so freely.
Looking around the floor,
it's filling up fast.
The storm achieves what
the cops could not,
clearing the cold streets
of those laying about.
25September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
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
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
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Ideas for the Giving Season - A Poem of Homelessness and Charity
This is not me begging, but ideas from a real street person as to what might be better, for those leary of giving cash. Which I fully understand. Seen too many packs, jackets and shoes being sold for cash, drugs or a swig from a bottle right after the gift was given myself. You still won't stop it all the way, but these are also things often traded for among us.
We call it "The Giving Season",
just as you homed folks do.
For us, it starts about now
or a few weeks back really.
Labor Day seems to spark urges
among folks who see us wandering
under heavy loads along these streets.
Don't know what moves their hearts
to open up wallets and bags
holding out things to we Homeless.
The knowledge that Winter is coming
with his nasty snows and cold?
Or that crisp morning's chilly air
that made you start looking quick
for the windshield scraper and rakes?
That blaze of turning tree leaves
whose color highlights our dingy clothes?
I really don't care reasons why,
I just want to thank you
even if those receiving seem rude.
Not all want to give cash,
and I don't blame them any.
Seen too many fellow panhandlers slither
over to dealers next corner over
and waste it all at once
seeking their next, perhaps last, high.
So, after thinking it over carefully
I have some suggestions to offer
as an actual Homeless wise man
for you to consider as alternates.
You don't need much to try
offering these to those holding kites,
as we call our cardboard signs.
Single packs of instant coffee work,
as do hot chocolate and kool-aids.
You can get cheap liner gloves
over at your local dollar stores
And socks, never forget we walk
long distances in the bitter cold
wearing those too long until destroyed.
Gift cards are a great idea
just choose their source with Wisdom.
While Starbucks might seem your choice,
you get more cups per fiver
over at McD's or Seven Eleven.
And if you choose food gifts,
as an allergy sufferer I plead
have choices to avoid reactions ready
on those most common, deadly allergens
like nuts, tuna, berries and soy.
Believe it or not, even trash-bags
can be very well accepted items,
on those rainy or snowy days.
Batteries keep us just like you,
as we have little electronic devices
to help us keep spirits up,
be it radios, gaming toys, flashlights,
or for a few, digital cameras.
See, you can find easy things
that let you give during this season.
Not saying it won't go wrong
in some cases despite avoiding cash.
Face it, barter is our economy
with cigarettes, instant coffee and tokens
be it bus, laundry or some other,
as our hottest and desired commodities.
And, yes, some will trade foolishly
giving up needed gloves for drugs,
but that choice they will make
has its own long-term costs attached.
If you decide charities are better,
please, research that organization very well,
and don't be afraid to ask
one of us for which seems
to have their brains in gear
about getting things to end users
in timely and efficient ways recently.
Also watch for fake organizations springing
up to sucker your dollars away
from where the need really is.
I'm not telling you to give.
That decision is your's to make.
Those as have the heart will,
those as don't, well, they won't.
And no matter how much spent
it won't end the homeless problem.
But you will make some better,
and give their spirits a lift.
And your own, probably, as well.
After all, it's the season's name...
...and what life is really about.
17SeptemberDyfedd Rex
We call it "The Giving Season",
just as you homed folks do.
For us, it starts about now
or a few weeks back really.
Labor Day seems to spark urges
among folks who see us wandering
under heavy loads along these streets.
Don't know what moves their hearts
to open up wallets and bags
holding out things to we Homeless.
The knowledge that Winter is coming
with his nasty snows and cold?
Or that crisp morning's chilly air
that made you start looking quick
for the windshield scraper and rakes?
That blaze of turning tree leaves
whose color highlights our dingy clothes?
I really don't care reasons why,
I just want to thank you
even if those receiving seem rude.
Not all want to give cash,
and I don't blame them any.
Seen too many fellow panhandlers slither
over to dealers next corner over
and waste it all at once
seeking their next, perhaps last, high.
So, after thinking it over carefully
I have some suggestions to offer
as an actual Homeless wise man
for you to consider as alternates.
You don't need much to try
offering these to those holding kites,
as we call our cardboard signs.
Single packs of instant coffee work,
as do hot chocolate and kool-aids.
You can get cheap liner gloves
over at your local dollar stores
And socks, never forget we walk
long distances in the bitter cold
wearing those too long until destroyed.
Gift cards are a great idea
just choose their source with Wisdom.
While Starbucks might seem your choice,
you get more cups per fiver
over at McD's or Seven Eleven.
And if you choose food gifts,
as an allergy sufferer I plead
have choices to avoid reactions ready
on those most common, deadly allergens
like nuts, tuna, berries and soy.
Believe it or not, even trash-bags
can be very well accepted items,
on those rainy or snowy days.
Batteries keep us just like you,
as we have little electronic devices
to help us keep spirits up,
be it radios, gaming toys, flashlights,
or for a few, digital cameras.
See, you can find easy things
that let you give during this season.
Not saying it won't go wrong
in some cases despite avoiding cash.
Face it, barter is our economy
with cigarettes, instant coffee and tokens
be it bus, laundry or some other,
as our hottest and desired commodities.
And, yes, some will trade foolishly
giving up needed gloves for drugs,
but that choice they will make
has its own long-term costs attached.
If you decide charities are better,
please, research that organization very well,
and don't be afraid to ask
one of us for which seems
to have their brains in gear
about getting things to end users
in timely and efficient ways recently.
Also watch for fake organizations springing
up to sucker your dollars away
from where the need really is.
I'm not telling you to give.
That decision is your's to make.
Those as have the heart will,
those as don't, well, they won't.
And no matter how much spent
it won't end the homeless problem.
But you will make some better,
and give their spirits a lift.
And your own, probably, as well.
After all, it's the season's name...
...and what life is really about.
17SeptemberDyfedd Rex
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
The grey skies arrived.
Sneaking in overnight,
cloaking the stars above
from our upward gazes
to adore Heaven's Vault.
Wet and cooler air,
aleady I see the hints
of color on the over east,
where Fall's first touch
lays out colorful dots.
Campsite was trashed
and where it wasn't,
the herd staked claims
on the little coves
where I prefer sleeping.
Cleaned what I could,
left the rest for Nature
to scrub away this week
with expected rains
these clouds promise.
This is the warning:
find a safe haven folks.
As Winter starts stretching
for his cold marathon
across us pretty soon.
Ain't where I wanted
this old boy to be
back in the spring.
No built up place,
no home in offing.
But, I enjoy cold,
as long as toes
ain't freezing until dead
or nose running constantly
to keep the pipes clear.
Third season of snows
I will spend homeless,
less the world relents
and Fate convinces Karma
I've paid for my sins.
So, when you pass by
some person holding sign
on a cold, windswept corner,
remember, it could be you
or a loved one there...
...for you're only a mistake away,
even if you don't admit it.
10September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
Sneaking in overnight,
cloaking the stars above
from our upward gazes
to adore Heaven's Vault.
Wet and cooler air,
aleady I see the hints
of color on the over east,
where Fall's first touch
lays out colorful dots.
Campsite was trashed
and where it wasn't,
the herd staked claims
on the little coves
where I prefer sleeping.
Cleaned what I could,
left the rest for Nature
to scrub away this week
with expected rains
these clouds promise.
This is the warning:
find a safe haven folks.
As Winter starts stretching
for his cold marathon
across us pretty soon.
Ain't where I wanted
this old boy to be
back in the spring.
No built up place,
no home in offing.
But, I enjoy cold,
as long as toes
ain't freezing until dead
or nose running constantly
to keep the pipes clear.
Third season of snows
I will spend homeless,
less the world relents
and Fate convinces Karma
I've paid for my sins.
So, when you pass by
some person holding sign
on a cold, windswept corner,
remember, it could be you
or a loved one there...
...for you're only a mistake away,
even if you don't admit it.
10September2013 - Dyfedd Rex
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Into the shadows until dawn comes - A poem of the streets
Some-days it really sucks being me,
unable to partake of the stuff
other use to escape our reality
thanks to my nasty allergic reactions.
Too proud to crawl into bottles
the other guys take swigs from,
leaves this good ol' boy wondering
What the Hell can I do?
Other than sit by the water fountain
in the small designated smoking area
filling up my tobacco pipe occasionally
tossing out smoke rings to watch
drift off from under my hat
sailing away as I'm unable to.
So I sit here waiting patiently
for the night's soft velvet colors
camera dead weight in my pack,
stuck on F-stop plus five thousand
judging by the whiteout pictures taken
the last few sunsets and rises.
Still just rising up, waxing moon
the laughing man nearly all there
as the mad ones howl loud
anticipating their night to rule all:
streets, alleys and lonely dark parks
harassing me about being out here
the only sober guy this weekend
when they enjoy their wild parties.
Folks stroll past on the pathways
giving me dirty looks down noses
forgetting who their Carpenter walked with.
I'd rather be in the Foothills,
sitting in a grove real quiet
waiting for God's pastel sky paintings
and the racing of Summer's meteor showers
across the vault so dark above,
even as the crickets serenade me.
Six bucks lie in my pocket,
a few swigs of Coke left,
the a pop bottle of water
filled before the library shut down
and I had to leave it.
The shadows cast by the buildings lengthen,
as the sun seeks other places
to give her warmth down to.
Chill breezes cross the park's grass,
making my layers a needed thing
under their gentlest of feather massages.
Another night out on the streets,
just seeking a quiet, safe place
to layout my bedroll at,
set aside this load I'll lift
when I set out to sleep.
Dark hours spent hidden from sight
so I won't offend some folks
for being denied benefits and homeless.
Falling water soothes my soul's aches,
flowers give my eyes balm's touch.
Still, deep inside my thick skull
barbs tossed today my way sting.
Rejection from jobs, stories won't flow,
not even those simple toss-away's
I use to clear internal buffers.
Insults, spoken and silent, still burn,
salt to wounds opened by acts
of arrogance, greed and other sins,
I once was guilty of also.
Motorcycles stuttering call, headed up state,
cruising for their Friday night rides
say its time to head on...
...back into shadows until dawn comes.
21June2013 - Dyfedd Rex.
unable to partake of the stuff
other use to escape our reality
thanks to my nasty allergic reactions.
Too proud to crawl into bottles
the other guys take swigs from,
leaves this good ol' boy wondering
What the Hell can I do?
Other than sit by the water fountain
in the small designated smoking area
filling up my tobacco pipe occasionally
tossing out smoke rings to watch
drift off from under my hat
sailing away as I'm unable to.
So I sit here waiting patiently
for the night's soft velvet colors
camera dead weight in my pack,
stuck on F-stop plus five thousand
judging by the whiteout pictures taken
the last few sunsets and rises.
Still just rising up, waxing moon
the laughing man nearly all there
as the mad ones howl loud
anticipating their night to rule all:
streets, alleys and lonely dark parks
harassing me about being out here
the only sober guy this weekend
when they enjoy their wild parties.
Folks stroll past on the pathways
giving me dirty looks down noses
forgetting who their Carpenter walked with.
I'd rather be in the Foothills,
sitting in a grove real quiet
waiting for God's pastel sky paintings
and the racing of Summer's meteor showers
across the vault so dark above,
even as the crickets serenade me.
Six bucks lie in my pocket,
a few swigs of Coke left,
the a pop bottle of water
filled before the library shut down
and I had to leave it.
The shadows cast by the buildings lengthen,
as the sun seeks other places
to give her warmth down to.
Chill breezes cross the park's grass,
making my layers a needed thing
under their gentlest of feather massages.
Another night out on the streets,
just seeking a quiet, safe place
to layout my bedroll at,
set aside this load I'll lift
when I set out to sleep.
Dark hours spent hidden from sight
so I won't offend some folks
for being denied benefits and homeless.
Falling water soothes my soul's aches,
flowers give my eyes balm's touch.
Still, deep inside my thick skull
barbs tossed today my way sting.
Rejection from jobs, stories won't flow,
not even those simple toss-away's
I use to clear internal buffers.
Insults, spoken and silent, still burn,
salt to wounds opened by acts
of arrogance, greed and other sins,
I once was guilty of also.
Motorcycles stuttering call, headed up state,
cruising for their Friday night rides
say its time to head on...
...back into shadows until dawn comes.
21June2013 - Dyfedd Rex.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Solar Paparazzi - A Poem of Chasing Sunsets and Sunrises
Move a inch or a foot,
sometimes even a mile,
just to get that one shot
where the light is perfect
with a smudge of foreground
before the light show's glow.
I feel Orion's hand
guiding the camera
respecting my hunting
even if the sought prey
is not what he once stalked,
knowing my soul forages.
Not alone in this quest,
others join in nearby.
Shutters click, sighs, comments
all about our target
as she rises or sets
painting the sky gently.
We are the Solar Paparazzi,
seeking beauty around us each day
to share with others or just our souls.
Silhouettes dance wildly
before the changing sky
or stand still in respect
of the moment Ra dives
beneath the distant edge
where the world doth end.
Orange and pinks shine,
lavender hues sneak in
to try the tint limits
the tool in hand sets down
as the rules for this hunt,
which is a timed event.
Golden air, Angry reds
each color sends ciphers
read best by the elders
who know that lore from youth
and try to pass it down
across generations.
We are the Solar Paparazzi,
Rising early, bedding down later,
but we treasure every moment.
... unless Sol hides from our stalking lens.
31May2013 - Dyfedd Rex
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Bird of Sunset in Nature's Temple - a poem of Nature and Civilization's Meeting
Amid the bustle of the city
things fall to the waysides fast
and we forget where we originated
until we touch the urban interface
where the wild still comes out.
Even if it's just the backyard
where an open handful of seeds
can bring down bits of sky
as the bird of sunset's flame
settles down on soft fingers
to feast upon offerings to Nature
amid her temple we never see
unless we awake, opening our eyes.
8December2012 - Dyfedd Rex
A person on twitter shared a picture of feeding a cardinal from someone's hand... and this came from it and their caption. I hope to get permission to link to the picture... but imagine it if you have to.
Edited 9 Dec for adding this link to the photo! thanks for letting me Liza! Enjoy her art too!
https://twitter.com/LizasArt/status/277488128162418688/photo/1
Dashboards Powered by Articles with Nudes - a poem of keyword search stealing
Powered by article dashboard nude.... This one keyword search on my blog stats left me wondering the first time, giggling the second, and feeling creative about it the third time around. This is what I managed to find inside the skull of stones to explain it. Not sure if its what they wanted, but it makes me smile.
In days beyond peak energy
we will harness every erg possible
seeking even muscle spasms while seated
looking at silly web articles online
harnessing arousal from the dirty nudes
to keep our electric dashboards lit
as around us the world freezes
just because we can't take stands
as that means getting off butts
and actually doing something more productive
than just sitting here in oblivion.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Midnite Zombie Crawl Cleanup - A short from CRAPP and Troy Tanner
Meet Troy Tanner, he works for the part of the EPA that cleans up behind Zombie Crawls... for one thing...
I really hate the calls that come in after midnight. But, working for CRAPP, its the time of day most of our messes occur at. This one caught me on vacation in some mountains.
The thing on the desk I rarely get to sit at claims my name is Troy Tanner, then lies by saying I am a "remediation specialist". That is government-ese for being a janitor, and one stuck with the worst jobs that sink three floors below the streets to the Cleanup, Remediation And Paranormal Protection division of the EPA. CRAPP.
October calls after midnight are the worst, especially when you don't have a partner to gripe about being rousted from a nice warm bed as the glorious inebriation of the night before is morphing into tomorrow's spectacular hangover. The suits inside the beltway tend to hide after disturbing me like this, which is why DC is no longer the murder capital of the country.
I wasted the first dozen or so century long minutes looking for the phone. Cells should come with a cord attached, for easier retrieval and so you can sling them further away or harder against the nearest wall. Found it hiding on the bed stand, in plain sight again.
"Tanner. This better be good, I'm on vacation."
The voice at the other end was weary and weak. "Troy, its Rob. I would not do this if we were not so short handed, but I need you to deal with something for me." Rob Atkins is a former partner of mine, and acting director until the politicos got wind we have competent leadership still. The fatigue of being the only one still functional after the mess in Boise was obvious. If he was calling me, the boy was really desperate.
"Give me the details, then get back to Michelle." Michelle, his wife, was one of the casualties from the before mentioned catastrophe, along with my last partner, half the division and goodly chunk of Idaho.
"Quick job. Zombies have infiltrated one of those crawl things. Just keep the fatalities low and the newsies distracted." Keystrokes told me something I really did not want to hear, as I'd no idea where my laptop absconded off to. "Details in you inbox."
"Fine."
I won't bore you with the details of finding another electronic device using Purloined Letter stealth tech. Suffice it to say, the witching hour was over thankfully though. Losing things is nothing new for me. Few years back I lost three partners in one week, two are still MIA. The other is a POW in Hell.
Luck was with me, it was the crawl I'd detoured around to get back to my motel. Near the mall across the highway. I grabbed a dustpan, broom, and a bottle of bleach from the janitor's rollagon, leaving a fifty. The sawed off twin barrel with rock-salt loads moved from my duffel bag to inside my jacket. With any luck, the humans were clear of the area, and all that would be left were the undead and a few stray reporters and lawyers. Too damned many of those anyway. no one would miss them if I needed to put them down.
Lady Luck apparently left me an old used oil barrel someone welded to a handcart neat the freeway exit. Which was good, Zombies shed, which is the main problem. The brain eating thing is just a Hollywood myth. But zombie guts and flesh tend to be a major hazard, not just from the OSHA Slip-Trip-Fall issue, nor the diseases like athlete's foot or crotch rot. Nope, its the radiation that trips me out onto the streets after every one of these weird mobilizations. Baba-Yaga particles can wreak havoc on a city if allowed to sit around too long, and the more zombie parts, the more of those little buggers dancing down the streets there will be.
When it comes to a clean up, most folks wear full gear, like a bubble suit or military MOPP gear. Me, I figure after all I've seen and been exposed to, it no longer matters. Kinda like that lava sampler who never wore safety gear out on the islands of paradise. All a person really needs is a pair of leather gloves and brains enough not to inhale any dust. Like I said, I'm just a glorified janitor, who cleans up the messes you never hear about.
So, halfway down the trail of rotting flesh bits, I stumble upon a human munching on a zombie. Cannibals seem to always turn up after these things. Normally for human scraps. This sort of threw me for a loop. I checked to make sure it was human. No fangs or fur, so the vamps and weird-wolves were out. Lack of a cloud of flatulence eliminated ghoul. Trim, uncorrupted flesh knocked zombie of another sort than the standard off my list. This puppy suffered from serious issues if it thought zombie was a delicacy.
Unless it was seeking to gain some serious mojo, say by consuming the powers or attributes of a foe. Certain magic slingers promote that view, one which leads to a considerable number of my cleanups over the years.
And to my packing heat against government regulations.
Now, I have seen stranger, pardon the pun here, crap before. But only on Election Day, Halloween or New Year's Eve. The general rule of thumb on Zombie contamination is blast first, justify the shoot in the report and blame the CIA for everything. While I rarely follow the rules in my division, this is one of maybe four I tend to be religious in following.
Until I noted the teen-aged girl digging in on a zombie just a few doors down.
Then more beyond her. Dozens of folks, some dressed as zombies, others in the human mode. But all of them pigging out on rotted flesh. I checked my watch, my phone and the calendar in a bank as I passed it. Yep, October first, not that day in April. '
Out of general procedures and just so I could get an idea on the scope of my problem, I finished out the course of the run. Not much was in the final klick. Seemed the greatest concentration of feasts lay in that sweet zone, the one where normally the zombies ate the human runners, or at least pretended to. Each case merely confirmed my worst fears.
Somewhere out there a wizard possessed or was possessed by a wicked sense of humor.
Juju zombies normally are tougher undead to kill. Unless you substitute gummy worms for the maggots when conjuring over the corpse. Then you get walking undead vending machines, complete with a whacked out frequency of Baba-Yaga particle motion which induced the munchies as surely as a doobie-snack. It left me with my own temptations. To just let his little scenario play out or take him a bottle of scotch for reviving a dirty old April Fools Day joke in time for the fund raising run.
Then I started calculating paperwork versus the overtime that dealing with it as an on-call situation would get me.
Look, you want a saint, search amid those who minister to the poor, mentally ill, and children in burn wards. Me, I'm just a regular Joe, who has rent to make and bills to pay. To cover my ass on the OT, I called in for approval. Lucky me, Rob must have taken a smoke break from Michelle's bed.
"Atkins." Just his voice left me fighting a yawn.
"It's real. Get this, April Fool Zombies are back in vogue." Rob worked that case with me, he should have at least chuckled. Instead, all I got was a groan.
"Look, Michelle will understand if you grab some rack time. I got this, just call Jen and approve the OT and on-call status change." That got the chuckle at last.
"Candy zombies? You need OT for candy zombies?" Smiles can be contagious, even if you can't see them. I felt my grin ripping the grim face I'd worn since Boise.
"Yeah, well, I lost several more partners. You know that means I have a huge tab to pay off."
After a minute of howls at the other end, he caved. I'd still call our division secretary before noon to make sure of it. At least the healing had begun. We were laughing again.
Which died for me when I wondered just how improved over the original a real jester's sense of humor could make the Juju Zombie joke go. Now I was wishing my path headed south back to my room, instead of west to the mid-point of the Crawl's path. Things were worse. Now there were spectators to deal with, unless this tomfoolery really turned twisty.
Checking my watch, I noted it was barely 2 A.M., so there was not much time left to deal with this before folks woke up for the Mormons semi-annual gatherings relaxation day. Considering the whole thing started at five in the evening, it was gory, yet fascinating. I doubted then that any of the original vectors of the spell survived the evening hours, just from the way the folks were all clustered up down around the mall. You could hear the satisfied belches, then the farts and groans started, as rotten flesh corrupted their guts, spreading swiftly.
The scents of candies in the air left me ill. I reviewed mentally that old case. Salt loads are wasted candy zombies. You need sour with the salt to counter the sweet. Pickles do okay, but its a royal pain in the ass loading them into shells, which then leak brine everywhere.
Then I saw the kid with the super soaker. How anyone under twenty-five managed not to succumb to the lure of sugary sweet corpses I don't know, and forgot to ask afterwards. The wince on my face threatened to break some bones, I'm sure. I hate bargaining for tools with kids, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. A check of my wallet gave me a clue as to how much I could afford, which had better be enough, payday was not for another week.
Wandering through the mess on the street, trying to avoid stepping in the sticky remains, I spent more time thinking about how to negotiate with this little punk than on stopping the spell. Trust me, dealing with kids is far tougher than defeating most mages and their minions.
"Hey, kid! How much you want for that squirt gun?" Flashing a couple of Jacksons, I slowed down, looking around to make sure of the remainder of the path to him.
"More than that, old man." Got to love the future leaders of America, things will be even more screwed up when they take over.
Exerting patience, I refrained from knocking him into the next decade. "Look, will it be a down payment if I show you how to use the damned thing to kill zombies?" Disbelief started a war with the extreme interest in things undead and gory behind eyes jaded by too much television.
Then they turned crafty. "Only if I get to pull the trigger."
I blame the first-person shooter games for what happened after that. Luckily, the nearest convenience store had lemon juice, pickles, and some parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (forgive me the musical reference there, but those four spices do work against most zombie types, look it up). The smart-mouthed kid, proved an apt student, once he realized I was not joking.
"You sure your not one of those dudes with the suits and zappy things?" The Men in Black references were too much. Dealing with the public just after one of those movies is released makes the paperwork seem pleasant.
"Nope, I'm just a janitor. Here to clean up the mess." Which was only half true. I came here to get drunk, and catch a flight home afterwards.
"You sound like my Uncle 'Rico." The kid puttered for a few minutes opening bottles and loading the tank of his toy. "But I don't get to talk to him much since he got promoted at the Vatican."
The name and location collided with the abnormally high coincidence rate I should be used to after years in CRAPP. "Father Enrico Sanchez?"
"Cardinal Sanchez now." The kid had his feathers up that I knew his uncle, but not about the elevation to the red robe.
"Hot damn. You talk to him again, tell him Troy says hi, and you bought the Benjamin he owes me over the Holy Water mess." Rico loved telling that tale to others. His only trip out in the field, against the Holy Father's orders even, and him saving the day.
Now I got the hero worship eyes. "Impossible. No scruffy hombre like you would be Troy Tanner."
Its so nice to have a legend, I just wish folks would at least describe me correctly. Then again, I suppose few folks expect the hero of the moment to wear dirty Levi's, torn flannels shirts, grey pocket T's and sneakers. But, even the guy I speared has his depictions wrong everywhere. His beard was scruffy as mine and the hair was black and curly, not brown and wavy.
One flash of an official EPA CRAPP ID card later, and the kid was gung-ho about me, and the mission. "Outstanding!" was his rating of it.
A check of my watch showed three thirty. We had about another three hours before the city woke up, and in the Sandy part of the Salt Lake Valley, they frown on messes like this.
"Let's rock and roll." Lucky me, these kind of zombies clean up easy. The salt and sour stuff would break the enchantment, and the local water had enough lime in it to help dissolve the bodies quicker. One of the victims carried in a large enough pipe wrench to open hydrants with, so once the kid wasted them in an area, I flooded the streets and sent the remains off to feed the brine shrimp in the Great Salt Lake. Between hydrants, I made a note to lay an option on the soon to be cheaper sea monkeys that wound up in dog and cat food, and to watch for any possible side effects in those critters next spring.
The sky was just turning that steel gray to fade away the stars as we finished up the easy part. I probably had a couple thousand casualties of various sorts to deal with. Most were going to be missing persons reports after the General Conference ended, and families gathered for a big meal to celebrate. I wanted to be on the first flight back to Baltimore or Dulles before that point in time.
There was still one person not fleeing or joining the feast besides the kid and me. Female, stunning blonde, the statuesque type, tall and curvy. And she was packing heat, magical and lead slinging kind. In the back of my head, I'd pegged her as a minion, but now I was not so sure. She followed us around the loop the course followed, observing us coldly, careful to look away when I glanced her way.
"Hey, since you are 'Rico's nephew, I can't call you kid anymore. Como su llame?"
The laugh was wicked. "Pablo Etruscus Gomez, but my crew calls me Lobo."
"'Kay, Lobo it is then." I looked around, then slid my hand to the riot gun. "Catch the blonde over there?"
"Yeah. The one that walks like a man?" The boy's eyes were sharp, and he had street smarts.
"Got it. You distract her, so I can flank her." You'd have thought I was handing over the keys to the Mormon Rocket. He moved away fast, charging the gal. I never got the chance to flank her. The kid showed skills I would not have expected a Hispanic Goth to have, football ones. The tackle was perfect, until he leapt off.
"Its a dude!" He shouted, running off.
The mage looked up, facing the twin barrels of my side by side shotgun. "Hi, when I take mages alive, they get to do the paperwork."
"You must be Tanner, then." The drag queen smoothed out her hair. "Funny, for all the drafting you folks do, you never accept applications for employment."
Something tweaked the back of my brain. "Gunnery Sergeant Mike Hamilton, right?"
"You remember! Such a mess I ran into in the Sandbox, but you folks refused to clean it up. So I learned how." The smile faded to a grimace a Drill Instructor would approve of. "Sadly, the military had to let me go. Still no tolerance for the transgendered, you know."
I laughed. "Well, if this was your application, welcome to CRAPP, but unlike the military, here lifers really serve until they die." Safing my weapon, then breaking it down fast, before a cop came around to find out why the barricades were still up, I held out a hand, almost jerking it back as hers changed to a man's mitt, stuck on a woman's body.
"Bloody curse. Nothing personal, but that mess with the candy zombies seemed the safest way in." She took my hand pulling herself up. "I knew you would remember how to kill them, and relax, the bodies reconstitute after immersion in salt water." She laughed. "They'll all think they had one hell of a bad trip is all."
I generally don't deck ladies. But Beths once told me that if you want to be my partner, you leave the lady behind and become half hellcat and half witch. And as Mike Hamilton had been a recondo, I sucker punched her after she turned to walk away.
Hell, my military days were a long time back, no need stirring up a fair fight with someone fresh out of a war, I'd lose. Especially if they were going to be in the same office with me. Besides, I really could have used that hundred the cardinal owed me, and at least Lobo could have left me the squirt gun, instead of taking the marker and running.
I pinned a note with acceptance of her application, directions to the office in DC and a warning to her blouse. The warning? "Never disturb me until after the hangover wears off, or I will feed you to your curse."
I really hate the calls that come in after midnight. But, working for CRAPP, its the time of day most of our messes occur at. This one caught me on vacation in some mountains.
The thing on the desk I rarely get to sit at claims my name is Troy Tanner, then lies by saying I am a "remediation specialist". That is government-ese for being a janitor, and one stuck with the worst jobs that sink three floors below the streets to the Cleanup, Remediation And Paranormal Protection division of the EPA. CRAPP.
October calls after midnight are the worst, especially when you don't have a partner to gripe about being rousted from a nice warm bed as the glorious inebriation of the night before is morphing into tomorrow's spectacular hangover. The suits inside the beltway tend to hide after disturbing me like this, which is why DC is no longer the murder capital of the country.
I wasted the first dozen or so century long minutes looking for the phone. Cells should come with a cord attached, for easier retrieval and so you can sling them further away or harder against the nearest wall. Found it hiding on the bed stand, in plain sight again.
"Tanner. This better be good, I'm on vacation."
The voice at the other end was weary and weak. "Troy, its Rob. I would not do this if we were not so short handed, but I need you to deal with something for me." Rob Atkins is a former partner of mine, and acting director until the politicos got wind we have competent leadership still. The fatigue of being the only one still functional after the mess in Boise was obvious. If he was calling me, the boy was really desperate.
"Give me the details, then get back to Michelle." Michelle, his wife, was one of the casualties from the before mentioned catastrophe, along with my last partner, half the division and goodly chunk of Idaho.
"Quick job. Zombies have infiltrated one of those crawl things. Just keep the fatalities low and the newsies distracted." Keystrokes told me something I really did not want to hear, as I'd no idea where my laptop absconded off to. "Details in you inbox."
"Fine."
I won't bore you with the details of finding another electronic device using Purloined Letter stealth tech. Suffice it to say, the witching hour was over thankfully though. Losing things is nothing new for me. Few years back I lost three partners in one week, two are still MIA. The other is a POW in Hell.
Luck was with me, it was the crawl I'd detoured around to get back to my motel. Near the mall across the highway. I grabbed a dustpan, broom, and a bottle of bleach from the janitor's rollagon, leaving a fifty. The sawed off twin barrel with rock-salt loads moved from my duffel bag to inside my jacket. With any luck, the humans were clear of the area, and all that would be left were the undead and a few stray reporters and lawyers. Too damned many of those anyway. no one would miss them if I needed to put them down.
Lady Luck apparently left me an old used oil barrel someone welded to a handcart neat the freeway exit. Which was good, Zombies shed, which is the main problem. The brain eating thing is just a Hollywood myth. But zombie guts and flesh tend to be a major hazard, not just from the OSHA Slip-Trip-Fall issue, nor the diseases like athlete's foot or crotch rot. Nope, its the radiation that trips me out onto the streets after every one of these weird mobilizations. Baba-Yaga particles can wreak havoc on a city if allowed to sit around too long, and the more zombie parts, the more of those little buggers dancing down the streets there will be.
When it comes to a clean up, most folks wear full gear, like a bubble suit or military MOPP gear. Me, I figure after all I've seen and been exposed to, it no longer matters. Kinda like that lava sampler who never wore safety gear out on the islands of paradise. All a person really needs is a pair of leather gloves and brains enough not to inhale any dust. Like I said, I'm just a glorified janitor, who cleans up the messes you never hear about.
So, halfway down the trail of rotting flesh bits, I stumble upon a human munching on a zombie. Cannibals seem to always turn up after these things. Normally for human scraps. This sort of threw me for a loop. I checked to make sure it was human. No fangs or fur, so the vamps and weird-wolves were out. Lack of a cloud of flatulence eliminated ghoul. Trim, uncorrupted flesh knocked zombie of another sort than the standard off my list. This puppy suffered from serious issues if it thought zombie was a delicacy.
Unless it was seeking to gain some serious mojo, say by consuming the powers or attributes of a foe. Certain magic slingers promote that view, one which leads to a considerable number of my cleanups over the years.
And to my packing heat against government regulations.
Now, I have seen stranger, pardon the pun here, crap before. But only on Election Day, Halloween or New Year's Eve. The general rule of thumb on Zombie contamination is blast first, justify the shoot in the report and blame the CIA for everything. While I rarely follow the rules in my division, this is one of maybe four I tend to be religious in following.
Until I noted the teen-aged girl digging in on a zombie just a few doors down.
Then more beyond her. Dozens of folks, some dressed as zombies, others in the human mode. But all of them pigging out on rotted flesh. I checked my watch, my phone and the calendar in a bank as I passed it. Yep, October first, not that day in April. '
Out of general procedures and just so I could get an idea on the scope of my problem, I finished out the course of the run. Not much was in the final klick. Seemed the greatest concentration of feasts lay in that sweet zone, the one where normally the zombies ate the human runners, or at least pretended to. Each case merely confirmed my worst fears.
Somewhere out there a wizard possessed or was possessed by a wicked sense of humor.
Juju zombies normally are tougher undead to kill. Unless you substitute gummy worms for the maggots when conjuring over the corpse. Then you get walking undead vending machines, complete with a whacked out frequency of Baba-Yaga particle motion which induced the munchies as surely as a doobie-snack. It left me with my own temptations. To just let his little scenario play out or take him a bottle of scotch for reviving a dirty old April Fools Day joke in time for the fund raising run.
Then I started calculating paperwork versus the overtime that dealing with it as an on-call situation would get me.
Look, you want a saint, search amid those who minister to the poor, mentally ill, and children in burn wards. Me, I'm just a regular Joe, who has rent to make and bills to pay. To cover my ass on the OT, I called in for approval. Lucky me, Rob must have taken a smoke break from Michelle's bed.
"Atkins." Just his voice left me fighting a yawn.
"It's real. Get this, April Fool Zombies are back in vogue." Rob worked that case with me, he should have at least chuckled. Instead, all I got was a groan.
"Look, Michelle will understand if you grab some rack time. I got this, just call Jen and approve the OT and on-call status change." That got the chuckle at last.
"Candy zombies? You need OT for candy zombies?" Smiles can be contagious, even if you can't see them. I felt my grin ripping the grim face I'd worn since Boise.
"Yeah, well, I lost several more partners. You know that means I have a huge tab to pay off."
After a minute of howls at the other end, he caved. I'd still call our division secretary before noon to make sure of it. At least the healing had begun. We were laughing again.
Which died for me when I wondered just how improved over the original a real jester's sense of humor could make the Juju Zombie joke go. Now I was wishing my path headed south back to my room, instead of west to the mid-point of the Crawl's path. Things were worse. Now there were spectators to deal with, unless this tomfoolery really turned twisty.
Checking my watch, I noted it was barely 2 A.M., so there was not much time left to deal with this before folks woke up for the Mormons semi-annual gatherings relaxation day. Considering the whole thing started at five in the evening, it was gory, yet fascinating. I doubted then that any of the original vectors of the spell survived the evening hours, just from the way the folks were all clustered up down around the mall. You could hear the satisfied belches, then the farts and groans started, as rotten flesh corrupted their guts, spreading swiftly.
The scents of candies in the air left me ill. I reviewed mentally that old case. Salt loads are wasted candy zombies. You need sour with the salt to counter the sweet. Pickles do okay, but its a royal pain in the ass loading them into shells, which then leak brine everywhere.
Then I saw the kid with the super soaker. How anyone under twenty-five managed not to succumb to the lure of sugary sweet corpses I don't know, and forgot to ask afterwards. The wince on my face threatened to break some bones, I'm sure. I hate bargaining for tools with kids, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do. A check of my wallet gave me a clue as to how much I could afford, which had better be enough, payday was not for another week.
Wandering through the mess on the street, trying to avoid stepping in the sticky remains, I spent more time thinking about how to negotiate with this little punk than on stopping the spell. Trust me, dealing with kids is far tougher than defeating most mages and their minions.
"Hey, kid! How much you want for that squirt gun?" Flashing a couple of Jacksons, I slowed down, looking around to make sure of the remainder of the path to him.
"More than that, old man." Got to love the future leaders of America, things will be even more screwed up when they take over.
Exerting patience, I refrained from knocking him into the next decade. "Look, will it be a down payment if I show you how to use the damned thing to kill zombies?" Disbelief started a war with the extreme interest in things undead and gory behind eyes jaded by too much television.
Then they turned crafty. "Only if I get to pull the trigger."
I blame the first-person shooter games for what happened after that. Luckily, the nearest convenience store had lemon juice, pickles, and some parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (forgive me the musical reference there, but those four spices do work against most zombie types, look it up). The smart-mouthed kid, proved an apt student, once he realized I was not joking.
"You sure your not one of those dudes with the suits and zappy things?" The Men in Black references were too much. Dealing with the public just after one of those movies is released makes the paperwork seem pleasant.
"Nope, I'm just a janitor. Here to clean up the mess." Which was only half true. I came here to get drunk, and catch a flight home afterwards.
"You sound like my Uncle 'Rico." The kid puttered for a few minutes opening bottles and loading the tank of his toy. "But I don't get to talk to him much since he got promoted at the Vatican."
The name and location collided with the abnormally high coincidence rate I should be used to after years in CRAPP. "Father Enrico Sanchez?"
"Cardinal Sanchez now." The kid had his feathers up that I knew his uncle, but not about the elevation to the red robe.
"Hot damn. You talk to him again, tell him Troy says hi, and you bought the Benjamin he owes me over the Holy Water mess." Rico loved telling that tale to others. His only trip out in the field, against the Holy Father's orders even, and him saving the day.
Now I got the hero worship eyes. "Impossible. No scruffy hombre like you would be Troy Tanner."
Its so nice to have a legend, I just wish folks would at least describe me correctly. Then again, I suppose few folks expect the hero of the moment to wear dirty Levi's, torn flannels shirts, grey pocket T's and sneakers. But, even the guy I speared has his depictions wrong everywhere. His beard was scruffy as mine and the hair was black and curly, not brown and wavy.
One flash of an official EPA CRAPP ID card later, and the kid was gung-ho about me, and the mission. "Outstanding!" was his rating of it.
A check of my watch showed three thirty. We had about another three hours before the city woke up, and in the Sandy part of the Salt Lake Valley, they frown on messes like this.
"Let's rock and roll." Lucky me, these kind of zombies clean up easy. The salt and sour stuff would break the enchantment, and the local water had enough lime in it to help dissolve the bodies quicker. One of the victims carried in a large enough pipe wrench to open hydrants with, so once the kid wasted them in an area, I flooded the streets and sent the remains off to feed the brine shrimp in the Great Salt Lake. Between hydrants, I made a note to lay an option on the soon to be cheaper sea monkeys that wound up in dog and cat food, and to watch for any possible side effects in those critters next spring.
The sky was just turning that steel gray to fade away the stars as we finished up the easy part. I probably had a couple thousand casualties of various sorts to deal with. Most were going to be missing persons reports after the General Conference ended, and families gathered for a big meal to celebrate. I wanted to be on the first flight back to Baltimore or Dulles before that point in time.
There was still one person not fleeing or joining the feast besides the kid and me. Female, stunning blonde, the statuesque type, tall and curvy. And she was packing heat, magical and lead slinging kind. In the back of my head, I'd pegged her as a minion, but now I was not so sure. She followed us around the loop the course followed, observing us coldly, careful to look away when I glanced her way.
"Hey, since you are 'Rico's nephew, I can't call you kid anymore. Como su llame?"
The laugh was wicked. "Pablo Etruscus Gomez, but my crew calls me Lobo."
"'Kay, Lobo it is then." I looked around, then slid my hand to the riot gun. "Catch the blonde over there?"
"Yeah. The one that walks like a man?" The boy's eyes were sharp, and he had street smarts.
"Got it. You distract her, so I can flank her." You'd have thought I was handing over the keys to the Mormon Rocket. He moved away fast, charging the gal. I never got the chance to flank her. The kid showed skills I would not have expected a Hispanic Goth to have, football ones. The tackle was perfect, until he leapt off.
"Its a dude!" He shouted, running off.
The mage looked up, facing the twin barrels of my side by side shotgun. "Hi, when I take mages alive, they get to do the paperwork."
"You must be Tanner, then." The drag queen smoothed out her hair. "Funny, for all the drafting you folks do, you never accept applications for employment."
Something tweaked the back of my brain. "Gunnery Sergeant Mike Hamilton, right?"
"You remember! Such a mess I ran into in the Sandbox, but you folks refused to clean it up. So I learned how." The smile faded to a grimace a Drill Instructor would approve of. "Sadly, the military had to let me go. Still no tolerance for the transgendered, you know."
I laughed. "Well, if this was your application, welcome to CRAPP, but unlike the military, here lifers really serve until they die." Safing my weapon, then breaking it down fast, before a cop came around to find out why the barricades were still up, I held out a hand, almost jerking it back as hers changed to a man's mitt, stuck on a woman's body.
"Bloody curse. Nothing personal, but that mess with the candy zombies seemed the safest way in." She took my hand pulling herself up. "I knew you would remember how to kill them, and relax, the bodies reconstitute after immersion in salt water." She laughed. "They'll all think they had one hell of a bad trip is all."
I generally don't deck ladies. But Beths once told me that if you want to be my partner, you leave the lady behind and become half hellcat and half witch. And as Mike Hamilton had been a recondo, I sucker punched her after she turned to walk away.
Hell, my military days were a long time back, no need stirring up a fair fight with someone fresh out of a war, I'd lose. Especially if they were going to be in the same office with me. Besides, I really could have used that hundred the cardinal owed me, and at least Lobo could have left me the squirt gun, instead of taking the marker and running.
I pinned a note with acceptance of her application, directions to the office in DC and a warning to her blouse. The warning? "Never disturb me until after the hangover wears off, or I will feed you to your curse."
Saturday, October 20, 2012
as others race by in their cars
or walk along looking at me funny
seeing just another homeless bum standing there
not even looking up, back or forward
and thus miss the world around them
as she puts on a show slowly
giving beauty for any who just stop
to see what there is all about.
Blue line of lights from man's hand
leading into the softer orange blaze
kindled amid the horizon's clouds by sunset
as high riders above me take fire
over the arc of steel, concrete, light
that never can rival by itself alone
the joy I gain, as I snap
photos by the dozens, even hundreds perhaps
while others see just crazy homeless guy.
Pity those folks, I know I do.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
"Sanding the Past with Reverence" - A poem of regret and hope
Every stroke of the paper destroys the past
ripping away the layers of varnish and stains
taking it back to a nearly clean slate.
I feel so guilty doing this part now
eliminating decades of deeds, misdeeds and rich character;
leaving the wood naked as a newborn babe.
Dust rises around my moving hand in clouds,
falling like a rain, finding every crevice below
becoming part of the floor until the cleanup.
This has happened before, oh so many times
the removal of the impressions of the living
upon the long dead parts of trees surrounding glass.
At least I know one thing for certain,
with a new family, they will build here
new things onto the wood frame over time.
So I keep sanding away the past gently
trying to give the cracked varnish my respect,
filling in cracked wood, to prepare this palimpsest.
10October2012 - Dyfedd Rex
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
This is the power of Creation. - A poem of where doodles can lead.
The Kid is here today
doodling away on a legal pad
drawing out some fantastical world
and it brings back old memories
of my earliest writing days
when the maps were sketched out
that led to Billenius... and others.
He snags the offered headphones
tunes out the world with beats
as a world takes shape
with each stroke of his pens
and I have to wonder
will it be fantasy or scifi
this setting he crafts... while bored.
Mountains are laid out carefully
you can see the chains forming
and even the cities placed
with rivers flowing down seeking oceans
as he putters around here
making his own world of fancy
one that is his... not another's.
This is the power of Creation.
(12Jun2012 - Dyfedd Rex)
doodling away on a legal pad
drawing out some fantastical world
and it brings back old memories
of my earliest writing days
when the maps were sketched out
that led to Billenius... and others.
He snags the offered headphones
tunes out the world with beats
as a world takes shape
with each stroke of his pens
and I have to wonder
will it be fantasy or scifi
this setting he crafts... while bored.
Mountains are laid out carefully
you can see the chains forming
and even the cities placed
with rivers flowing down seeking oceans
as he putters around here
making his own world of fancy
one that is his... not another's.
This is the power of Creation.
(12Jun2012 - Dyfedd Rex)
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