One of the hardest thing fos ffdx ir the DP to muster up is a sense of thanx, especially for the hardcore among us whose joints creak a little louder and whose shoes seem a bit thinner with every day that passes. the pinprick in the tent is now a certifiable hole. The temperature is dropping and the ground stays wetter for longer. That cough comes from a deeper place in the lungs. You drink a little more and stay high a little longer. Sleep is fitful and leaves you more tired than you were when you laid it down. You spend the whole dream running when you dream at all . It is Minds' way of fending off those thoughts of mortality.
You wonder about the ones you haven't seen in a while. Is Mr Charlie K still in that hollowed out abandoned house on the south side? Is he shivering as the night rides in on thirty degree wings. How 'bout old Fox? He ain't strong and he ain't got no hustle he may be better off in the county. How 'bout Big Tim who never talks but everybody knows. You ought to go 'cross the river tomorrow and see if there's any smoke coming from his camp. He won't say anything, but he'll grunt to acknowledge your existence. You make thirty seconds of small talk about the weather and leave. Let him know someone's thinking of him.
If you know me, then you know that I count every day as a blessing. Just keep getting up I say. But then, my bones don't ache from where they healed wrong and didn't have insurance to get 'em set right. Keep getting up. Things'll be better. But I haven't been off my meds for a month since I got locked up for not moving fast enough to suit that rookie with a badge and it'll take 3 months to get my check started again (they cut it off when you're arrested you know). Keep getting up, I say. Things'll get better. But I didn't cop to a sexual assault charge (with a prostitute who stole my wallet while my pants were down 'round my ankles) just to go home after 6 months in Dirty County Jail. I didn't find there was no home after registering as a sex offender. I'm not prohibited from visiting momma cause she lives too close to the school house. my record doesn't keep me from getting into a shelter for a hot shower and a rack.
I still give thanks because I have things to be thankful for. I still think life is preparation waiting on opportunity. I'm optimistic about taking the next step, making the next move and drawing the next breath.
Keep Getting up I say. Things'll get better I say. I believe it when I say it. I just can't prove it.
Saturday, March 30, 2024
Rain
It's a rough time for the DPs out there. All year long we hear farmers bitch about rain. We sure need some rain they say. We're not going to make it without rain.Plowing dry fields in air conditioned tractors-Rush Limbaugh blasting away at their souls. "They're coming to take your money and your guns and your daughter's hymen". Over-all millionaires. Importing slave labor from Hispanca paying them in cash and voting against immigration reform donating to some blowhard wingnut who wants to build an electrified barb wired fence along the border complete with moats and alligators raised on dark meat.
If we work outside we're out of work today. We do the sidewalk shuffle between the raindrops-have to keep it moving or we'll be loitering. Don't sit too long or you'll be trespassing/ Homeless in America- A crime waiting for a charge.
On days like today it's like musical chairs. When the music stops, whoever's standing-not seated or safe or secure is out of the game and there are never enough chairs.
The music stopped for me a few years ago. Shuffling from concrete pillows to friend's couch to motel cum sponge bed to leanable wall I was on a bad streak and counted myself a loser for being stuck too far from a chair so often when the music stopped and then I realized that it was just a game. There were plenty of chairs and all I had to do was to leave the room and find a recliner.
The Music stopped for MK a long time ago. He dropped the psychotropics and picked up the ganja and he seems more human now. The county would rather he remain on the thorazine drip, but drool is not a good look for him. He's young and thinks himself in love with every woman who returns his gap toothed smile. He's harmless. But he's big and black and loud and I have a recurring vision of him barechested and bellowing at a ring of killers er cops who've drawn down on him downtown somewhere. Those who know him try to talk him down but can't get too involved(half the men I know are on probation and can't stand more than a nodding conversation with the law). SOme want to see a show- they holler "taze him taze him give us barabbas". It ends with him blanking out and pulling out a pocket knife with a broken blade. They will be ashamed to put it's picture in the paper and will omit the fact that the dna they found was the skin underneath his own nails.
I hope MK finds a dry place today where he can rest and smoke butts cobbled from other folks ashtrays and find the music in this damnable rain. I hope someone who knows him brings him somethimg to eat in exchange for a smile and a promise to rake their yard. I hope to prove my prophecy a lie for at least one more day.
If we work outside we're out of work today. We do the sidewalk shuffle between the raindrops-have to keep it moving or we'll be loitering. Don't sit too long or you'll be trespassing/ Homeless in America- A crime waiting for a charge.
On days like today it's like musical chairs. When the music stops, whoever's standing-not seated or safe or secure is out of the game and there are never enough chairs.
The music stopped for me a few years ago. Shuffling from concrete pillows to friend's couch to motel cum sponge bed to leanable wall I was on a bad streak and counted myself a loser for being stuck too far from a chair so often when the music stopped and then I realized that it was just a game. There were plenty of chairs and all I had to do was to leave the room and find a recliner.
The Music stopped for MK a long time ago. He dropped the psychotropics and picked up the ganja and he seems more human now. The county would rather he remain on the thorazine drip, but drool is not a good look for him. He's young and thinks himself in love with every woman who returns his gap toothed smile. He's harmless. But he's big and black and loud and I have a recurring vision of him barechested and bellowing at a ring of killers er cops who've drawn down on him downtown somewhere. Those who know him try to talk him down but can't get too involved(half the men I know are on probation and can't stand more than a nodding conversation with the law). SOme want to see a show- they holler "taze him taze him give us barabbas". It ends with him blanking out and pulling out a pocket knife with a broken blade. They will be ashamed to put it's picture in the paper and will omit the fact that the dna they found was the skin underneath his own nails.
I hope MK finds a dry place today where he can rest and smoke butts cobbled from other folks ashtrays and find the music in this damnable rain. I hope someone who knows him brings him somethimg to eat in exchange for a smile and a promise to rake their yard. I hope to prove my prophecy a lie for at least one more day.
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