"winos" poems
I saw you on the news again, aiming lies at civilians
You work like a serf to abhor the herd, which was merged by Lords to bore and encore, like a trap door in a dungeon.
What you earth and managed has got me famished, like the dense or pretentious, the meek and the senseless
And type endings to the finest that cry less, the winos that digress, or the shyest who digest
The plate which was purchased, paid to feed liars by the loudest were poisoned by us rebels running incense to the proudest.
Violently passive when distracted, these masses wreck havoc to have their heads handed to them
Sullen sweet to deter, you lure and reserve what is versed or inferred or implied or implored
Like the goodbyed or complied or the ladies waiting with lunacy lining their luxury gowns
Your disheveled and neat demanding appearance has me locked down with pirates and principle pilots
Dulled sick, they spy less, echo with insist, enlist and exist
As terrorists and presidents
Marked with malice making misfits that were mocked and disgraced, maced or laced by daydreams and magicians to assist beggars behind blueprints constructing islands
Which make slaves in to riots that capture journalists under wide tense
To suspend or impend doom sent hell bent by your priestess
You conduct chaos with fast hints, but quit slow when engaged with your conscience
Touched by divine tricks
Decided and destined, best in business
Prince of the wise man
Captain of the compassionate
Comrades with the crack heads singing anthems in kingdoms
We are heartbreakers painting bad graffiti
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
run the halfway house.
the winos will be showered,
fed,
and then led
back
into infinite night.
they talk quietly to one another,
waiting,
and by the time
I have finished my 3rd cup of coffee
some of them are in the park
drunk already...
...eyes burning like a locomotives furnace,
eyes flutter,
a half spin,
the man kneels and then falls.
others just stand
and stare
as if already under the mortician's
knowing smile.
and yet,
some will rise
from bright mists at dawn,
cherubic and dew covered
survivors of the night's storm.
grim miracles
who will share a bottle with a friend
and then laugh
at the selective kindness of good men.
between the burning furnace and
the chill of the night
hungry strangers are waiting.
a new day begins.
all is quiet.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
I rode a curb side
dust devil into
the low side of
town.
Found myself
adrift right along side
the lip stick stained
cigarette butts,
empty dime baggies and
a city days worth
of welfare diapers
and plastic bottles who
will out last us all.
Same old dogs
along the same
old streets.
Dogs so old
they no longer
lift their legs to ****
Its a bit shameful
but a Hell of alot
less painful just
to let it go where
you lay or stand.
Bad kids with
big sticks and
fist fulls of
C cell batteries
chase the winos
along the railroad tracks.
They generate
terror and call it fun.
Televised Gods
for your televised mind.
Fall asleep with the
lights on ,leave
something to guide
me back home.
Blame it all on me
and I'll leave before
the hate sets in.
My time here is
far past due,
summers over and
the rare California rains
have come in.
I came only for the
weather and whatever
there was to drink.
Moonshine Cherries and
Jameson on ice.
The conversations all died with
that last bottle of whisky.
The mason jars are all empty
and this passing moment
feels right
for me to leave with.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
The sun-setting solitude slowly turning a velvety night
a fine goddess now descending concealing all her might.
a temptress teaching, a mother loving, a judge always right
granting us a freedom from a million corners more to fight.
The dark angel calm shining her blinding beams so bright
searchingly merciful creating still deep inky shadows of light
numb blissfully for those conquered heroes false who slighting
off the straight narrow path of the fair,just and right alight.
Generous is she, the queen majestic enduring all the pain stoic,
our pleasures and folly wise,even joys twisted and distorted vain!
sods poor,fiends rich, the carnal drags and compassionate hearts,
killers cold, sly cons,soaked winos, glitzy stars, gamblers and tarts,
children of a kind all in her ***** mix,playing perfectly their parts
trusting a goddess neither blessing nor reproaching dead impassive
allowing us all a discretion total she is our grand,real mother massive!
I am a son blessed rare,watching neon bathed the nightly circus affected
judging never,comfortably learning with My Nocturnal Angel protected!
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
Users and abusers
come one and all
there is a freak show
down in the glass house
winos and crack heads
coke freaks and nitrous suckers
acupuncture skin punctures
and candy land pill poppers
*** heads and shroom munchers
users and abusers
one and all
come on down to church
in the basement of the glass house
wet your tongue in holy water
and revel the gospel of our lord and savior
(Insert dead pop culture icon here)
and don't forget to pay the tithe
to mother superior
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
The darkness can embrace the page a silk sheet of verbal perfection .
Empty streets and bars cast shadows that cling in mind like some ship long sailed from port.
Why must they see the end and never fight it's truth ?
We find so little compassion a snow storms emotion has left this summer night
vacant as the motels sign.
Drift for a second with me and i'll show you nothing but flawed perfection in return.
Cats in the garbage winos hold court in the parks distant to the .
The child never should know.
Poets speak in smoke filled rooms of nothing more than a broken souls frustration and second
avenue's false shine a glass charm and a freakshow diamond the ***** a true friend in
times all to often I need.
Whats your sport the streetwalker asks me in such a pure jaded sense.
wash me pilot hands are clean but thoughts seem to stain walls of the union mission
I love its true sense of decay .
Jack are you still on the road or just lost in big Sur?
Bob can they ever decode the message or just set free in the paint you cast as words?
Poets fools profits and second street saints I feel comfort in madness for
sanity's annoying plea just takes up my time.
Are we nothing more than junkies?
Slave to page and the veiw's no matter how blind they may be.
A drunkard , A clown, And a welcome stranger in many a lost souls view.
Charles I can understand your humor in the utter sense of ***** it all and the crued beauthy i reconize so very well.
And a whiskey laced brother kindred spirts seem to go better with southern bourban to
wash it all down.
Now sweetheart im not saying im any good but im always a goodtime.
We have to be ******** to be anything at all.
They all knew as so do I.
Heros gone were never heros at all.
Im the last of my kind hundred proof deadly with a **** eating grin.
Only through others eyes are we truely seen .
So I ask how's your view?
Admire many only to realize your lost in ego's storm.
Few understand and even less care.
Im always here till im truley gone.
Stay crazy friends and remember it's not to be admired.
For heros always must fall.
A breeze in the summers burning heat like many others.
I'll only leave a soon to be taken vacant seat.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
I walked in a sea of zombies,
circled a million roundabouts,
wandered
the streets in the reverse.
Nobody noticed me
with my two-week stubble,
my body odor emanated
as I cruised through the rubble,
waiting for twilight.
Dried baby llamas grimaced
while children played jacks
& men sold coca,
green bag mountains of it
stacked high like the cordillera
with chicken bones
lying around,
configured
in all directions,
it smelt magical.
And when
the sun finally fell,
I witnessed
the poverty stricken elite,
totally lost on their own
two feet.
I wanted to relate,
to feel human,
so I joined the winos
on a dark unknown corner,
sniffed the cool air
& could finally relate
to a time in space.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
In a crowded room filled with high society, and
In the facade of decadence, plays the Back Street Symphony
Winos falling asleep covered in yesterdays news
A lone saxaphone player, playing the blues
Neon signs and desinger lines are giving him his cues
He says "I've paid my dues"
I've got front row tickets to mainstreet
Walkin' by, don't know who you'll meet
A freak show on every corner
A broken heart walks on as a mourner
In a darkened alley you can hear him pray
Searching for a Savior with some words and a brown bag
Can anyone spare some change for me?
There goes the prom queen, is it a dream?
Hell is open twenty-four hours a day
I have front row tickets to main street
Watching the devils' choir earn their keep
There tearing down the walls in LA
There's a ****** on display, on main street
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
greatness once stood here
drinking the spilled blood
of the winos and dope fiends
as they crashed
wings useless
from voyaging too close
to Apollo's fury
this vast wasteland
endless concrete
and stores which stay in business
for months
before being replaced
with the next Mongolian themed restaurant
the streetlights flicker
before burning out
like the candles of so many
extinguished too soon
this wasteland is all encompassing
be wary of the passer-by
they have a grin where their mouth should be
and a purse with a hole in the bottom
they salivate greed
and scream
at anybody who will listen
*These are my beliefs,
they may not be right,
but **** it you'd better follow them*
the wolves are hungry
out to get you in every drunken
way too high dark alley
that runs rank with beer ****
the elders feed on the young
spiders on their world wide web
******* the life out of the youth
until they themselves
are free of this
free of anger and drive
determination
but best of all
free from the endless torment
of untouched dreams
lock your mind, heart, and soul
in a cage made of razor blades
and swallow they key
because times are hard
in the wasteland
and if you want to make it
you're in for a hell of a journey
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Park people are winos and homos and cheaters and thieves.
Park people are ugly, when they walk, they wheeze.
You'll find them 'neath bushes under blankets of leaves.
Park people do as they please.
Park people can stand around naked,
Throw up in public,
And not bat an eye.
Park people pick their noses, scratch their ****** *** in alleys,
And laugh so hard they cry.
Park people remember their mothers and their lovers,
Who they left for a bottle of rye.
Strange way for someone to die.
Park people don't care 'bout nuthin,
Cept MD 20-20,
And how to get plenty,
Pre......fur.....uh......bly,
For free.
Yes, the park people smile at you,
And the strange things you do,
To get away from them.
"Spare change, brother?"
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
She is so firme in her style in her life. She comes from a familia Pachucos and Pachuca she's living in culture. She's a firme hyna in the streets in EL Chuco. Every Vato riding in there Ranfla playing those oldies rola in the radio. She was raised and taught by her Jefita and by her Jefito and specially by her grandparents of the ways to be the perfect loyal honest Street Smart Pachuca. She lived in the varrio that were so many winos and tecatos. Mostly everyday in the early hours in the morning afternoon to the evening till the sun sets almost 24/7 there is always somebody getting hurt and there is always tira around the Varrio. The nights with smell like grifo.She becoming a True Firme Pachuca she is also aguas in the Varrio. She never back down from a fight but she never lost a fight. She always had young vatos and zafado ruco always looking at her and always trying to ask her out on dates. So kindly say no thank you but she always had eyes for a younger Vato same age as her. She was all in love with this one Vato. This Vato was well-known he had the baddest Bomba in EL CHUCO. Every Sunday she'll go to the cruise on Texas Street known as The Heritage Cruise where all the lowriders and all the Pachucos go and represent. Every time she sees this Young Vato her eyes would light up the night sky. She loved his Style so much she never said a word to anybody she was so in love with him. He had noticed her so many times the way she dresses the way she walks the way she talks the way she represents as a classy Pachuca. She was always into Ranfla and Bomba since she was a little girl. Her grandfather her father taught her to fix and paint cars. But she love those classic old style cars especially those Lowrider cars. Every September in El Chuco there's always the greatest car show we're all cars classics bikes a family events in the park. she loved going to Lincoln Park.. It was a family tradition from generation two generation to go to the show. She knew the man that she loved would be there......To be continued part 1
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Heart for rent!
This is more garage sale
Than outlet
Although expensive
This ***** is salvage
Salvation comes with a price tag
And a lot of baggage
But the energy
This heart provides
Will have you begging
To keep it
Forever
However,
This product is only
For rent
Different than others
Lent with intent
Of making future imprints
On others
Loaned to loners
Mourning mothers,
Missing fathers
Dead brothers
Widows, winos, weirdos and
Lust lovers
Uncover what's beneath
And know
The feeling is only temporary
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
The pigeons picked at the
crumbs in between the diamonds.
But they were more than likely
just pieces of broken glass.
The occupants of
the Mad house sit
out front on the concrete steps.
The look on their faces
say they are far
away from all of this used to be.
He could have been a
family man, a respected man.
Instead he slept like a
naive little baby, curled up on
the concrete with only
a wine stained coat for comfort.
This here is an asphalt
run still alive with history.
Good time girls and juiced up
sailors once painted this
street red with painted kisses
and fist fight blood.
The guys danced with the
women whose lips were
as red as the wine they drank.
This all should have gone
on forever.
All that is left now are
the pigeons and
the broken glass.
The winos and the Mad ones,
who shuffle like lost penguins
along Beacon street.
Still waiting for
the party to begin.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
Gaslights, headlights; broken down shoes
Passing by winos who've been sniffing on glue
Pulled into the city about a minute ago
I thought's I'd get some sunshine but all I see is snow
It's dusting the Earth to the color of a Lily
People staring at my shoes, I know they look silly
If I had half a muscle I wouldn't whip their ***
My sisters won all the fights we had in the past
Oh God
Oh Lord
Oh Devil
Oh No
I told my Mawma I'd be home by 8
But now I'm 33 and that's way too late
She'll still be smiling when I get there
But I'm sure I'm gonna catch Hell from the Mayor
'Cause I smuggled some numbers out of the last state
Then I ran through a red light and they photographed my plates
I had a girl tell me that she was obsessed
Even though all I did was get drunk and depressed
So I tried to love her but she made it hard
'Had the nerve to ***** me out while I was working in her yard
She said "You're too much to handle, how'd you get so drunk?"
So I packed up my **** and I threw it in the trunk
Five minutes later I was out of there
But I still work up at 7 choking on her hair
Oh God
Oh Lord
Oh Devil
Oh No
Each day is different but they're just alike
I sit around waiting for that certain time of night
When I can sip my suds and try to go to sleep
So I can dream about a day when I won't have to think
About God
About the Lord
About the Devil or
About my Soul...
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
i walk alone through the deserted sleeping city
the fog carries me away from and toward nothing
streetlights flicker in the distance
wounded memories coursing through my veins
naked heart bleeding in the moonlight
and the only thing love has given me
is a name for my misery
lonely shadow disappears in darkness
vacant surreal the world around me dreams
like a caged madman my heart pounds...screaming
stray dog hobbles past doesn't even see me
silent city speaks volumes...empty sorrow
winos sleeping every doorway... final nightmare
neon lights humming tired rhythm to my footsteps
and the only thing love has given me
is a name for my misery
the dawn yawns slowly hovering between worlds
bloodshot sun reveals hidden vagrants
last nights howling oblivion is shattered
slowly replaced by morality of morning
skyscrapers rub their weary eyes
i retreat to darkness as daylight burns the shadows
the final stars melt slowly into hearsay
and the only thing love has given me
is a name for my misery...
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
I know you've heard of RINOs,
Perhaps you've heard of DINOs,
Some Christians are called CINOs,
Are those men mere MINOs.
Women become WINOs
(the irony doesn't escape me though)
Humans evolved to HINOs;
Friends are friends
I'll never call them FINOs.
Avoid lovers who are LINOs,
And teachers who are TINOs.
Could a Jew be a JINO?
But make no mistake:
Terrorists are Terrorists,
Jihadists are Jihadists,
Haters are Haters,
War mongers are war mongers,
Liars lie.
It's We thePeople, PINOs.
Mar 31, 2024
Mar 31, 2024 at 11:20 AM UTC
I am standing here myself by the kitchen table,
the facet drips in the sink...drip, drip, drip,
a familiar repellent sound.
I raise my head upwards with the final beauty
of the done deed...
here in this shabby hotel in the darkest of places
in the city, where the winos roam and beggars die.
I walk to the room with the white shadow on a blood
splattered wall, a red hand print on the door.
i lift the hank of sticky hair from a worn chair and smell
the clotted blood.
I am filled with weariness; one man's answer to the belly pain.
My eye is a match-flame, the pain a solid lump.
Who will clean up this mess? Who?
I close my eyes in divinity and pain. No redemption...
The neighbors did not hear, they never do not with the radio
blasting out the rock and roll of a seventies tune...
Now there is no noise but a lack of sound.
i have gone deaf from the scream but the scream
was hours or days ago and the radio is unplugged and i stand in
black blood, it covers me and the bathroom is filthy and I
want to leave but stay and try to light a cigarette with shaking
hands. The room is empty except for material things...
strange to feel this cold...her gift of love too clumsy, too worn
not enough to hold me stable not in this dark place.
Why in this space of cockroaches, and stale muscatel?
The room does not answer only its broken ugliness hisses,
and where is the body, curled like a beaten infant in the corner?
Will rats devour her? There is a male insistency on meaning.
i can find no meaning in this stagnant air.
She laughed at me and my hands became weapons.
What was I doing in this shadow-land of the city?
Following what? Death! My death...
Now, i hear again the water dripping, it rips my nerves.
I am strung to a fine pitch...to know, to know not be erased
like so much dirt...dirt is here. i do not live here. Can I burn the
body in the bathtub and run the brown rust water and it will
go away? How many people on this planet starve to death
every second? What time is it? She stole my watch, the *****
I give it all back. I give her retched life back. I am covered with
her blood and I long to be clean. Long to be rid of her rotting
stench. Who will call the police? I will. i know that as I know the
corpse because I must have wanted this. i have no understanding.
It was a surge of life i sought and only found death. My death,
her death and the world's death. Our planet will die ,just this way
with a dripping facet and a ****** shadow...
The world will die with me.
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 7:06 AM UTC
My life
has appeared unclothed in court, death-bone by death-bone witness,
and I was shamed at the verdict
and was given a cut penny
and the entrails of a cat.
But nevertheless I went on
to the invisible priests,
confessing, confessing
through the wire of hell
and they wet upon me in that phone booth.
Then I accosted winos,
and derelicts of the region,winning them over into a latrine of my details.
Yes. It was a compulsion
but I denied it, called it fiction
and then I swallowed it like my fate.
Now,
in my middle age
I'm well aware
I keep making statues
of my acts, carving them with my sleep-----
or if it is not my life I depict
then somone's close enough to wear my nose ----
my nose, my patrician nose,
sniffing at me or following theirs down the street.
Yet not even five centuries ago this smelled queer,
confession, confessions
and you devil was thought to to push out their eyes
and all the eyes had seen (too much! too much!).
It was proof that you were a needle
to push into their pupils.
And the only cure for such confessions overheard
was to sit in a cold bath for six days,
a bath full of leeches, drawing out your blood
into which confessors had heated the devil in them,
inhabited them with their madness.
It was wise, the wise medical men said,
wise to cry Baa and be smiling into your mongoloid blood,
while you simply tended the sheep.
Or else to sew your lips shut
and not let a word or a deadstone out.
I too have my silence,
where I enter another room
and am not only blind,
but speech has flown out of me
and I call it dead
though the respiration be okay.
Perhaps it is a sheep call?
I feel I must learn to speak the Baa
of the simple-minded, while my mind
dives into the multi-colored,
crowded voices,
cried for help, I've no ******* on me.
The transvestite whispering to me,
over and over, My legs are disappearing.
My mother, her voice like water,
saying "fish are cut out of me.'
My father,
his voice thrown into a cigar,
"A marble of blood rolls into my heart"
My great-aunt,
her voice,
thrown into a lost child at the freak's circus
"I am the flame swallower
but turn me over in bed
and I am the fat lady."
Yes! While my mind plats simple-minded,
plays dead-man in neon,
I must recall to say
Baa
to the black sheep that I am.
Baa. Baa. Baa
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
I watched as she,
us cut from the same cloth,
stared into a diamond martini glass.
The leather on her shoes
haven’t seen the sand filled with red ants for years.
Drip, drip, drip
The last drops sacrificed onto
her olive chiffon skirt.
They seeped through the layers and
were the only ones who have done it in years.
The winos and banshees beside her, mesmerized at the box with moving pictures.
USA In Shambles
They can’t turn away.
They don’t even notice Miss USA
beside them in her own ruins.
I was supposed to be gone and away.
Life turned to dust, travelling with the wind.
Instead, the dust left traces in the martini glass
leaving chaos in its wake.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 4:43 PM UTC
(
(
(
\/
/\
/ \
####
Solitude
In the starlight of this night of Dream
Lovers find
Eachother ------ ( together ! )
In the alley shadows talking with the homeless
••
We rode the freight train from L A. to Fresno
I loved the way she passed the bottle with the Winos
with eyes sparkling with endless love
/////
I KNOW HER !!!
•
I love her sense of integrity
In her decision to remain a ******
Just to avoid foolish jelousies
••
We are
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY !
Sitting in Central Park eating sandwiches
Watching children on the swings
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
beam me up, Scotty!
hundred percent proof Gaelic,
drawn from a shaft of wheat,
near Glasgow, or in the Canines
mountain range - strange that
so few mountain ranges are called
Canines - all weathered protruding -
man perfected the mountain,
constructed a mountain improvement
in Egypt... but reduced it to a status
of tomb, every stone a man dead,
and inside the womb of fancy
gold, no books... just gold and a
zombie flesh, papyrus rotten -
imagine waking up in the afterlife looking
like a ******* mummy - i'd rather wake
up like the Brahmin stated: elemental,
fiery, ****** off - yeah, i know, the part
where we get to be part of the geological
history, compressed, burnt in diesel...
i don't mind the "covered in cow-shit"
that much, surfs up on the Ganges;
**** alba corruptor primus*.
that's how Latin translates - the verb before
the adjective - in Anglo-Saxon
the arithmetic is white man, prime corruptor.
**** the poem was about ****** Muslims...
well, i have a pair of aces and we're
rightly gambling solidarity...
Jalaluddin Rumi... and Omar Khayyan...
they were piss-heads, winos and worse off
than the last Tsar of Russia, hashish smokers...
poets, defilers... what else?!
i'm not going for a citation, that's too scientific,
just trust me on this one, no one sober in
the right frame of mind writes words like that,
sanity and sobriety doesn't work like that,
you can stack supermarket shelves with
packaged goods, but poetry? nah, no regime,
all spontaneity - the similar thrill of theft -
you steal blanks and write whatever is jeopardy;
i swear to Allah the brimstone knee-bender,
if your people don't start dipping their soul
in the fiery water of the second to none Styx
that's εθαε i'll be worried - dudes, you have
a reputation for pristine Persian poetry...
i'm done.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
What is all this blather about dawn
And the lies about loving sunrise?
There is very little fun going on.
It doesn’t it make me wealthy and wise.
It’s often cold except in summer.
It’s still mostly dark, not quite light.
Stumbling around is a ******
And, in my opinion, it’s not right.
What the heck is wrong with bed,
Letting the whole world get up first
Enjoying more dreams in my head,
Before experiencing morning thirst?
Why can’t I let the winos rise up
And move away from my doorstep
Before I try to find my getup
And take my outside first step?
Unless I make it at home, no good
Food is offered in American diners.
They sell no roughage, as they should.
They think health food is for whiners.
Nothing green, not much but meat
Mostly on offer is coffee and sugar;
Fried, and starchy stuff on the street.
Finding food besides that is a ******
So, no thanks, I much prefer to stay
With dreams of retirement in my head
Until later on in the bright light of day
Snuggled, sleeping in my comfy bed.
I don’t want to wake while it’s still dark.
There is nothing much of dawn I like.
Joggers go on and run in the park.
All of you early risers: go take a hike.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
********* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.
Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:
https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders
Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.
contact:
[email protected]
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 3:05 PM UTC
I sat out front
on the large
concrete steps
and allowed my mind
to slip just to
see how it felt.
The occupants of
the Mad house
sat and moved
about around me.
Some held intense
conversations
with the air and
with all that wasn't
there.
Others picked at
scabs or picked
inside of noses.
Their polluted
minds wondered about
everything
except why I was
there.
A guy in furry
slippers and a women's
hat decided I was
there to give out cigarettes.
His face froze with
confusion and horror
when I told him
that I didn't smoke.
Another guy
danced on the sidewalk
in wide dramatic circles
to the music in his
head .
His eyes were
closed and his zipper
was down.
I stared across Beacon st.
along with some of the Mad
and watched two winos
as they sat on a bench
in their park.
They each drank out of
***** paper bags,
an occasional
mumble exchanged.
The scavenging gulls
stood sentry
as the pigeons
picked at the
ground around
them.
I looked past the winos
through the palm fronds
and the eucalyptus.
A hulk of a container
ship slowly made
it's way along the
harbors main channel.
I thought about the
history of this place.
Where once sat a
library,a place to
seek out and to learn.
Now sits two winos
with their own
kind of knowledge.
And what was once a
YWCA a place for
recreation and youth.
Now serves as housing for
those whose minds have
wondered too far.
Those who dance on
Beacon st.,
alone.
To no ones music
but their own.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
It's late
We
Have
"Spoken"
--
--
--
The elevated trains
.
The winos and movie stars
-
-
The sun and the rain
.
Tra la la
Tra la lay
Whoopsie DOO
What a wonderful DAY
_
We
Have spoken
---
Can you
Will you tell
Me
Your Name
..
I'm sure you know
Which one i mean
--
The boy and the girl
Out by the corral
Still talk in riddles
Still talk of dreams
--
We hide in the bowels
Of the Money Machine
Grovel and bow
Baseless slaves
-
It's late
We
Have
"Spoken"
--
--
--
Winos and movie stars
Riding home
The elevated trains
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC