"panhandler" poems
Once upon a time, a long time ago
There was a little boy with a grimy flow
I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday
And this is what I heard him say…….
He say **** like, he be like….
Ah! and I'm a *********** biter
The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya
You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers
Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva
I go so hard when I'm flowing
So cold my flows frozen
I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean
And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion
But dam, those explosions are so slow motion
So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees
Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between
A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D
Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly
I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious
A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes
Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish
Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it
Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates
I damage this establishment
They enacted bans on urban camping
If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is
Happily on mattresses
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
(Inspired by This Is the House That Jack Built)
Crack House
This is the house that police raided.
This is the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the dealer with the street popcorn,
That distracted the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the pervert stocked with ****
That bought from the dealer with the street popcorn,
That distracted the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the baby recently born,
That annoyed the pervert stocked with ****
That bought from the dealer with the street popcorn,
That distracted the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the gang armed with scorn,
That kidnapped the baby recently born,
That annoyed the pervert stocked with ****
That bought from the dealer with the street popcorn,
That distracted the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the homeless man that begged at morn,
That waked the gang armed with scorn,
That kidnapped the baby recently born,
That annoyed the pervert stocked with ****
That bought from the dealer with the street popcorn,
That distracted the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the panhandler all forlorn,
That supported the homeless man that begged at morn,
That waked the gang armed with scorn,
That kidnapped the baby recently born,
That annoyed the pervert stocked with ****
That bought from the dealer with the street popcorn,
That distracted the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
This is the cardboard sign and clothes all torn,
That belonged to the panhandler all forlorn,
That supported the man that begged at morn,
That waked the gang armed with scorn,
That kidnapped the baby recently born,
That annoyed the pervert stocked with ****
That bought from the dealer with the street popcorn,
That distracted the cop,
That alarmed the ****
That bought the wimp,
That injected the needle
That lay in the house that police raided.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
Citizen, enemy, mama's boy, sucker, utter
garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden
rubble which you now arrive to sift.
All our wires were crossed, barbed, tangled, or interwoven.
Also: we didn't love our women, but they conceived.
Sharp is the sound of pickax that hurts dead iron;
still, it's gentler than what we've been told or have said ourselves.
Stranger! move carefully through our carrion:
what seems carrion to you is freedom to our cells.
Leave our names alone. Don't reconstruct those vowels,
consonants, and so forth: they won't resemble larks
but a demented bloodhound whose maw devours
its own traces, feces, and barks, and barks.
Joseph Brodsky
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Mr. Wall Street,
Yes, YOU
You in the Perfect Suit
Here are your instructions:
Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Don't ague with me!
Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet
Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
and give them a very different life
Now walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
Yes - all of your hair
That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter
Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat
Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles
Destroy your privilege
Cut ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider
Barefoot bald and humiliated
You can start again
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
A bat of the eyes, a flick of the wrist,
a ruffle of sleeve, a daydream,
a heartattack kiss and
I'm gone, no time to grieve--
all the leaves of prose and bad poetry,
perhaps you'll remember me-
during those halcyon afternoons,
when the coffee brews,
distant church bells ring out
a panhandler's tune no one can sing to,
but we used to dance it through
in damp clothes and into dark rooms--
a life lost in desperate minutes,
forbidden fruits and daggers of knowledge
were all we could taste, feel in the midst
of the misery in simply existing,
and woman you're free to rise above me,
stare from the balcony,
while I reenact a lifetime of sin
on a half-lit stage, far from the lilac's bloom,
never will I dress as a groom,
nor will I sleep under the same moon,
that was miles ago, summers away from here,
a mythical love taken to sea,
oh, it's easy to miss what never could be.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
These wheels spin
Draped in the clothes from
The Hospital
Rolled out
Onto this platform
Waiting for the underground
Subway
Hunched in the hospital wheelchair
Stares flood
The Homeless
Are unsightly to those who pass
Especially the sick
Less tolerable than the
Smiling panhandler
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Hello, Mr Wall Street
Mr. Wall Street,
Yes, YOU
You in the Perfect Suit
Here are your instructions:
Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Don't ague with me!
Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet
Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
and give them a very different life
Now walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
Yes - all of your hair
That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter
Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat
Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles
Destroy your privilege
Cut ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider
Barefoot bald and humiliated
You can start again
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Mr. Wall Street,
Yes, YOU
Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet
Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
Walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter
Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat
Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles
Destroy your privilege
Cut ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider
Barefoot bald and humiliated
You can start again
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Mr Wall Street
Yes, YOU
You in the Perfect Suit
Here are your instructions:
Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Don't ague with me!
You submit and obey
Not knowing why
You are my slave
Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet
Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
and give them a very different life
Now walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
Yes - all of your hair
That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter
Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat
Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles
Destroy your privilege
Cut ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider
Barefoot bald and humiliated
You can start again
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Mr Wall Street
Yes, YOU
You in the Perfect Suit
Here are your instructions:
Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Don't ague with me!
You submit and obey
Not knowing why
You are my slave
Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet
For the first time
Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
and give them a very different life
Now walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
Yes - all of your hair
That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter
Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat
Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles
Destroy your privilege
Cut all ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider
Barefoot bald and humiliated
You can start again
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
I feeleth for thou
Stripper trying to make a buck
I feeleth for thee homeless one
No home food nor truck
I feeleth for thou
Mother with no lover
I feeleth for thou panhandler
Being humble and ashamed
I feeleth for thou innocents
Getting caught in wrong time and place
I feeleth for thou
Kids with no mums nor dads
I feeleth for thou
Slave trade beings
Made as material of trend
I feeleth for thou
****** on mainstreet
Noone told thou of God
And how thy soul for him he could keep
I feeleth for thou
Angry and frustrated
I feeleth for thou
Lost and forgotten
Old and outdated
I feeleth for thou
Lonesome one in back of the room
I feeleth for thou
Because I'm him to
I feeleth for thou
Because mine God maketh me feeleth
I feeleth thou even on mine own
Just who I am
Didint thou knoweth?
I feeleth for thou hopeless romantic
Who seeks all the wrong places
I feeleth for thou
With mascara stains
And cuts on wrists
I feeleth for thou wonders
That hast been called slave, **** whore, bitch, *** **** sick
For only if those men kneweth thou huh?
I feeleth for thou who canst see one inside
I feeleth for one
Who think the only way out is suicide
I feeleth for thou
I feeleth thy pains
I feeleth I know
I've been scorned all the same
But please forgiveth others
As they shalt do thou
I feeleth thou
Oh yes
How I feeleth thou...
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
Take me to a place where I see nothing but the sky
To lay in the sun and for my dreams to never die
To tell you the truth I am easily amused
There is no need for me to be so confused
Take me to a place that is over the horizon
And where the stars they shine so bright
And lay in the grass until the sun starts risin'
And the crisp morning air becomes a warm light
Take me to place where I can see for miles around
To renew my soul and for hope to be abound
Lately despair has been my one and only friend
Take me to a place where I can let my heart mend
There is not a single soul in sight
Along this lonely stretch of highway
But I feel anything but lonely tonight
I am free to be me, and to do things my way
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
Mr Wall Street
Yes, YOU
You in the Perfect Suit
Here are your instructions:
Take off your polished handmade Italian shoes
Yes, take them off, right here in the street
Don't ague with me!
You submit and obey
Not knowing why
You are my slave
Peel off those long thin black dress socks
Feel the pavement under your
Smooth, clean white feet
For the first time
Leave your former shoes to
Cry for their former owner
Some panhandler will grab them
and give them a very different life
Now walk into the cheap barber shop
And tell the barber to shave your head
Yes - all of your hair
That full head of thick corporate hair
Falling to the floor in a pile of silver silk
As the barber hides his laughter
Now walk barefoot and bald
in your $3000 pinstriped business suit
and your silk tie and cufflinks and starched white shirt
and cashmere overcoat
Walk barefoot though the financial district
Everyone will stare
Your colleagues and friends and competitors will laugh
As dust collects on your smooth, supple clean white soles
Destroy your privilege
Cut all ties
Burn your bridges
But first cross over to the other side
Become an outsider
Barefoot bald and humiliated
You can start again
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
time is a vagabond
travels along byways
across life's big pond
its ticker's a bicker--
a nagging that's thicker
than freckles on a face
its tocking reminds you
of armless, moustached pirates
that haven't got a clue
●○
°
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
On tabletops and in bathroom stalls, his audience he does
astound
A dazzling show for one and all, his talents know no
bound.
They call him Pierrot
He himself he does not know.
Toss him your rotted fruit; he graciously will
eat
Sickness but paltry price; to grovel at your
feet.
They call him Pierrot
He himself wish it were not so.
For your gold and silver, earnestly not he
plead
To bathe solely in your veneration, gladly he’d
bleed.
They call him Pierrot
He himself pulled undertow.
A shield of alabaster betrays a scarlet
face
A gleaming retort to innermost dis-
grace.
They call him Pierrot
He himself no arrow nor bow.
His grossest corruption, that which he does
imbibe
For one more day, to lucifer, he offers a
bribe.
They call him Pierrot
He himself fodder for the crow.
In the Abby his copper chalice he does
fill
Desperate panhandler imploring of you good
will.
They call him Pierrot
He himself unrisen dough.
Oh to drink and guzzle your sympathy, such
chance
For taste of your tepid affection, evermore he’ll
dance.
They call him Pierrot
He himself a blemish in snow.
But when the poison seeps from his
head
And those of conscience sleep soundly in
bed
He will look upon the mirror with bated
breath
And to the man he recognises not wish for
death
The call him Pierrot
He himself pleads you: ‘Don’t go’.
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 8:54 PM UTC
You and I could take over the world if we wanted to.
We don't, but we could.
We'd plant daisies in everyone's mailboxes and tack love stories to every door.
We'd play music in the streets and dance on the roofs of every high-rise office building in every city.
Every panhandler on every corner would hold a sign that says, "hello, world. What a pleasure it is to see you smile." as five-dollar bills overflow from their coffee mugs.
What a difference it would make, ruling the world with love instead of fear.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
The tree is being cut down
it has no choice in the matter.
If someone is coming at you with an axe,
you can run away.
The tree has to stand there and take it.
The tree is rooted;
bound to that one spot;
there is no escape, none,
never was.
Do you ever wonder if
the tree feels the axe
cut into it?
Does it resonate through
the whole of the tree,
like it resonates through
me?
-
For some reason
I’ve been having to interact
with more homeless or panhandler types
than ever before.
I always wonder why they approach me
in the first place.
I guess it has something to do with
the perception of shared struggle
or something.
I’ll probably never figure it out,
but it could be something like that.
Regardless, it never lasts very long.
The dirtleg sees the guy on crutches as
some sort of kindred:
“Hey man, can you give me a couple of bucks,
so I can get my car going?”
“No sir, I can’t.
I don’t have any cash on me.”
(Actually, I have about $50 in my wallet)
“Okay, brother, thanks anyway.”
“Sorry, sir.”
(I just want to go home.)
{From a block away}
******* crippled ************
(I can still hear him.)
I imagine wiping his blood
off of my crutch before I get
in the car.
The engine turns over.
I drive home.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:53 PM UTC
You always have your hand
on my hair-trigger. There it lingers
until it blows you up in billows
of fluff. Has you staggering like a panhandler
clamoring for a buck when he’s down
on his luck.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 6:03 AM UTC
The bespectacled elite gathered in the glassy box
of modern architecture, prattling politely about the
poet’s new novel, analyzing psychoanalysts and
parsing the layers of rhetoric that shaped the modern age.
The high-speed spreading at high school debates
served as a high-minded metaphor of linguistic legerdemain,
contained a critique of the vacuity of the era’s political speech.
Outside, a panhandler begged for bites of a breakfast sandwich.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC