The Shelter Kid's Walk - A Story that Exposes your Shame and Failures, America

It's scary here. Mommy says stay close. Hard to do. That lady is dancing crazy, and some guys cut between us, pushing me aside.

They smoke stuff that smells bad. Some lay against the wall, sleeping or drinking things. And you have to step over legs stuck out, and miss that puke there.

Some of them are buying things. I see the money handed around, and baggies or rollies passed about. Sometimes smaller things.

Just want to get across the street, and back into the warm place. Maybe we can have a Happy Meal? Mommy shakes her head, saying "we'll see".

There is a dirty guy bent over, playing with shoe strings while giggling. He looks sick, and groans sometimes. That weird guy tries to stop me, keeping me from Mommy. His hands are all black, and his eyes are funny, all cloudy, like the air today. His reaches  to me like Daddy said he might. Told him no, and he won't stop. So I use those words, like the girl did last night, when we came here.

Mommy yells at me, mad. Wants to know where I heard that. Can't she hear them around us, talking that way? What's wrong with what I said? Everyone's using those words when saying no.

Got away, though. Why's that guy in the hat all scrunchy faced? He's right, saying I shouldn't have to walk through this. I want a home, not here. Walking to school there was further, but easy. Not so many strange people doing dumb things.

What smells? Oh! I better walk around that puddle, it's yellow. Don't he know there's a bathroom just inside the door?

The leather jacket guy is walking to that car. One less person to dodge. Wonder what he's selling them?

Why is that lady there hiding under the blanket. Everyone else smokes standing up. Smells funny, and things are spinning.

Ooo! A fight! Now two more are in the street. Are they playing? No. Wow! Even my little brother aims better than that! Ha! He missed and fell down!

Daddy grabs my hand. He caught up, and pulls me to the street. "Watch for the trains, honey."

Why is he frowning? Everyone here says yes that way.

I can't wait to get across the street. The guards keep the wild people away there.

This is the bit I actually wanted published this year, something to make America wake up and realize just what the hell is wrong with jamming all the homeless into one place. It is in no way fair to the kids. I've finally done my part, putting this out there. I saw all this, including the kids being led around it all, outside the shelter in Salt Lake City, during my time there, and in the one return after I turned to street camping to catch a bus to a free feed on New Year's Day, 2014. You have a lot to atone for, those who feel the sins of the father and mother deserve to be rained upon the children. But, that is for God to beat your asses for, not me. 

Last Morning at Bear Lake - A poem of some time off the streets

Cold air ruled the morn
my last away from the city
as the cracks between clouds rolling in
allowed in the first light of day
that silvery glow, hinted by sky
still a pale blue tint.

Took out the old pipe
loaded it up and lit it,
standing on the broad ledge along hills
watching the roller clouds slowly run over
the Bear River Range and others
as the deer passed through.

A small herd, grazing upwards
after touching the lake for water,
just as curious about my being out
as I was about their lack of fear.
They stood at the driveway bend
watching me smoke this morning.

Three does and a buck,
two points is all he bore,
and smaller than his ladies, by far.
They youngster had a good start, seems
on building his family from scratch
or they were bunching already.

Those rollers caught light southeastward
silver tops over grey-black bellies
and the wispy trailed feathers of white
beneath them spoke of snow they came here
to lay as a blanket soon,
maybe even tonight, up here.

Winter is here, for sure.
The air is cold carrying dampness,
the ground still parched from summer's heat
and Bear Lake is looking pretty low.
The dark sandbar forming well out
from the normal shoreline today.

This is a great place
to escape the city's nasty ways
where some crime prompts the sirens' wails
to wake a man up from sleep
leaving the taste of fear hanging
in a mouth seeking safety.

Headed back soon, I fear.
Back to the streets and crime
once this cabin is winterized and sealed,
to a place I once loved dearly,
but now carry a strong dislike
over the way things go.

The hills call me loud
when out and away like this,
asking me to enter their folds quietly
and offering to swallow me into valleys
that hold a peace rarely disturbed
once the snows piled up.

Now that orange glow pulses
between breaks in the deck above
as a storm slowly rolls over us
driving out the smogs and stagnant airs
the warmer weather brought us lately,
which is good, and bad.

No place to fort up
that is my biggest worry now,
the loss of places I once used
to others and their bad camping manners,
leaving this traveler of the streets
worried he'll need to surrender.

Until I absolutely have to,
I'm staying out of that darkness
down around the shelter, where drugs rule.
Can't take that kind of risk now,
with allergies to their recreational chemicals
forcing me to stay away.

Makes it tougher, for sure.
But I have steel in me,
hidden under the layers of veneer civilization pasted
onto me when society accepted my presence
before turning me out as failure,
even as I held true.

The deer wandered away slowly
and I finished my smoke, chilled.
The winds of winter are rising up
stirring the worries, the cold, my soul.
But within me lingers summer's heat
in my soul and heart.

Waiting to finish this job
I step inside, write this up
and hurry back outside, afraid of missing
some little event or color show here
that will have to carry me
until the spring thaws return.

1December2013 - Dyfedd Rex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9October2013 - Dyfedd Rex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Project Alert.... A short story of CRAPP...

So, this idea has been bouncing off the rocks in my head for a while now, and its flowing out today...
Imagine if the EPA had a special division to do the cleanups behind all the Vampire Slayers, Zombie Killers and Wizards that roam around in fantasy these days...
Then give the main character all my worst tendencies, amplified... and an attitude about bureaucracy that is beyond even mine. Make him a Luddite (Technophobe), only able to love women unavailable to him and hate paperwork even though its his mealticket.
Then toss in a division of the Army that creates problems all the time he has to clean up, two demons who follow him around and his dog, which has allergies to paranormal phenomenon and those with abilities in such.
Not sure where its going yet, other than out to Dugway Proving Grounds.... This may get ugly.

Admissions and Denials - A poem of life

There are things you never admit
like what you think of others
if their outfits really interest you
or being lost in familiar settings.

There are things you should admit
breaking wind in very confined spaces
that you have some vile habits
and knowing where you are going.

Then there are things totally unknown
even to your self when seen
for they slide by under stealth
like BO and other such things.

There is a lesson here folks
never admit to having an opinion
for any who disagree with you
will call you crazy or ill.

But never admit to being stubborn
ignore that mea culpa with everything
for being muleheaded about things leads
to losing friends or voting foolishly.

(15May2012 - Dyfedd Rex)