Mother’s Wrath
spun out and distained by the rotting of time
envisioning nothing anymore,
no more meaning in the numbers, no more ponderings of the sway
in the trees, in the bark, away from it all
now, since the bombs dropped
the streets are empty, there are no more people
scurrying for groceries at the market
no more lines at the welfare office
no more tweet and twats
just silence.
the birds are gone, no longer singing the melody of reason
the cats are no longer prowling the alleys of restaurants and bars
searching for nibbles and bits to tide the ache of a sour empty belly
no more babies being born down at the hospital, no more deliveries on the highway of commerce.
not since the bombs dropped,
since a man in a suit, in a castle in the sky, decided he didn’t like the direction
of his public relation campaign, didn’t like the answer from the other world leaders
about buying and selling resources of the earth, profiting off of clay and mire and muck
since the frogs quit burping and those men hid in their high tech bomb shelter
awaiting the windfall, the fallout of eradicating the earth
inside the broken shutters of the grocery store
hiding in the canned good aisle
peeking out from behind a little blanket
is the beginning of a new civilization
because the earth will collect its people
and expel with wrath those that try to own her
Mr. Bill
I met Mr. Bill out of necessity.
I was a twelve year old runaway couch surfing through the hills of southwest Portland when I ended up drunk on Black Velvet and puking on his couch. It’s not a good way to start new friendships when you puke on someone’s floor, but I didn’t know that at the time because this was the first time I had ever been drunk and the first time I had ever been homeless.
Mr. Bill was kind enough as he fixed me a plate of microwavable burritos. That’s the way it is out on the streets, you try new things, everyday, all the time.
Things you weren’t allowed to do in your foster homes or the basement of your parent’s house or any other place you were running away from. I didn’t set out to get drunk, it just happened. Life is a lot faster when no one is keeping you on a schedule.
Mr. Bill was the first gay man I ever met. The other kids who stayed on his floor said he was cool. That he wasn’t creepy. I wondered what that meant as I passed out on his couch with an uneaten burrito on my chest.
The next morning was pancakes and promises. I had a place to stay. As long as I wanted, he said. It was amazing. I ran back downtown to enjoy the sunshine and forget about my troubles. When I got back to his house it was the first time we were alone. I was in tears because I had to run away from my sister who was trying to convince me to return to the foster home.
He gobbled me up in his arms when I rushed into the apartment. I sobbed as I swore never to go back to the foster home, never go back to getting beat up and broken by those who were paid to protect me. He said I didn’t have to go back there; I could stay right there as long as I needed. I never had a father. I had never felt the fir on a man’s chest comforting me when I was upset. It felt good. I trusted him completely. I had been looking for a man to take care of me for a long time and Mr. Bill promised to be there for me.
“You wanna get high?” He asked as he pulled a cigar box from under the couch in the living room. “That would be cool,” I said as I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my shirt.
He gave me some pot and put on a movie. It was a pornographic movie with loud moans and big dicks. It made me uncomfortable, but I was sad and crying. “Its okay” he said to me. I didn’t think it was okay but he loaded another bowl of weed and doused it in VCR cleaner. “Take a hit of this,” he said shoving it towards my mouth. My dick was getting hard from the movie and my head began spinning in a million circles as he slid my pants off and wrapped his scraggly lips around my little penis. It felt like a little pencil inside of a hairy wolverine. His beard itched and scratched me.
I didn’t know what to do so I watched the movie; I listened to the moans, and after two minutes of slurping and moaning, I exploded. I don’t know how to feel. I know I have been violated, but it felt good. He is giving me a place to stay so I owe him something. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel like rape. It didn’t feel like I was forced to get my dick sucked, it sort of just happened and now I am exploding, in my balls and in my mind.
It’s the first time I ever came and the first time I was ever molested.
It just happened
Pike st market
pike st market burns neon red in the early morning dew
I walk, looking at the street, looking through the street,
on the street, into the street
i found a dollar today
must be on the right track
i walk by the gospel mission
the stench of hopelessness
mixing with the sound of garbage trucks
making their morning rounds
women fitter with shopping cart trash
waiting for the doors to open
for instant coffee and relief from the rain
a drizzle today
a pause from the constant big, droopy rain drops
that usually fall along the Puget sound
plastic garbage bags replace raincoats
downtown awnings replace shelter
i walk past downtown parks filled with more trash
a man under an overpass
using a box for a bed, his jacket
his only defense against the cold
he curls himself into a ball
it looks like he is trying to get back to his mother’s womb
he can’t get to the earth through the concrete
its not nice out here
business execs rush from bus stop to cubicle
past starbucks after starbucks
addicts on the street shake empty cups outside
a walk through Seattle at dawn
shadow children
bus stops overrun with the people
trying to get somewhere
anywhere but here
gas propels the industry
keeps the air smug
overbearing
green in color, red in pain
change comes in nickels
found on the street
discarded by someone
found by someone
with their head down all the time
staring at the concrete
seeing the leftover, the discarded
just as many people join the litter
what connects the dots
on the satellite?
is it the people?
another constructed tower
filled with boxes to contain
not free
paupers sing modern folk tales
with broken guitar
the voice of a crackling songbird
a seagull hoping for crumbs
nickels and dimes buy food and cigarettes
maybe a beer to ease the pain
in his back
from walking all night to stay warm
past hotel after hotel
empty rooms filled with heat
a toilet
survival of the richest
tales of dreams lost
dark gray of Portland rain clouds
bridges connect old and new town
junkies and lawyers
mingle with street kids with no home
red bricks and light rail tracks
on the grid, amidst the concrete
sewers spew steam at night
while children puke heroin withdrawal
going nowhere
moving fast towards never and forever
never see the light
always fearing the dark
shadow children, silent spare change
vacant homes stay lit
while our children rifle through
garbage outside the federal reserve
plenty of money in there
Sisters of the road
on the bus mall with the smell of diesel
as constant as the hiss of public transportation
there is a small café
nestled into a pre-gentrified red brick building,
now belittled by high rise condos
with art galleries as store fronts
inside the doors is the sound of hunger satiated
the smell of roasted coffee and burnt bacon
crackling eggs mix with the schizophrenic
hovering over his plate in the corner
carrying on a conversation with himself
as he shovels cornbeef into his mouth
his eyes wild but safe
a dollar twenty five gets you
hot breakfast and a coffee
if you don’t have the change
but you have the time
an hour washing dishes or clearing tables
or mopping floors or greeting guests
if you are old man jim
who has lived in a shopping cart since
Reagan was in office
he hasn’t missed a breakfast in twenty years
anyone is welcome, no one turned away
every day for thirty years
the lost, cold, and forgotten
could find a hot meal
and a reprieve from that damp cold Portland rain
the suits don’t brave the walk across Burnside
preferring the overpriced kiosk muffins
with security guards and key cards to open
the glass doors
sisters of the road
old town’s last safe haven
from the bitterness found out there on the street
That Man With The Keys
here comes that man with the keys
he’s like a disease to me
like a puss filled boil on the bottom
of my dirty feet
here comes that man with the keys
he has something to say
about everything that he sees
he tells me what to do, how to do
where to sit, where to stand,
when to take a piss, when to wash my hands
- man with the keys, why do you annoy me?
is it in your brain? your blood? your soul? or
just another part of your job
des-crip-tion?
here comes that man with the keys
that man who is murdered everyday of the week
not by a knife, or a gun, or a club
but by our rage infested imaginations
we wish death, death, death
to that irritating man with the keys
here comes that man with the keys
unlike me he can feel the soft breeze,
unlike me he can smell the beautiful sea,
unlike me he is free
yet when he leaves I am left
with his power tripping disease
here comes that man with the keys
can you fade me, can you change me
can derange me?
can you realize the joy I feel?
you are no longer
that man with the keys