A Cry For Help
The air is worse than it was yesterday. I kinda want you to publish that poem I derived from your words as a collaboration, but it feels like Grand Theft Auto. People are running around killing each other. There’s absolutely no morality. The ash wafts in like made up memories derived from porn and gangsters. That’s next on the list of experiences. Hacked. Broke. Permanently unemployed. Fu#k pension and retirement. I do cardboard boxes and ride out influenzas, a social life of coke bottles for urine and plastic bags for the big stuff. Thank God for dog parks and those plastic bag shoots. I look for cotton anything. It gets most of the squish. The trick is not to move a lot. Once you get up from the make-shift card table, everyone knows your address. I do my shopping at night, if you get me? The guy two tents over has a collection of bicycles that reminds me of those rich guys, who collect cars. Why would you collect cars? Don’t people know women can’t tell the difference? A car or even a bike to a homeless person is a waste of time. There’s gas and insurance, not to mention a driver’s license required to drive one, and both just get stolen. It’s better not to have anything anymore. You just call attention to yourself. Life is at whim. I constantly feel hunger. The guy next to me, eats the same canned soup over and over. Somehow he got a case of it and keeps it outside of the door of his trailer. People like us are so far removed from hand-outs, we just sit here. I am telling you, there’s a lot of land available for the homeless. The other day, I saw a man in a wheel chair in the middle of a dry reedy area abutting the airport. We are starting to form shantytowns, doing trades in stolen goods, and even laughing. I admit it sounds like hyaenas in captivity. Out of no where and for no reason, people just laugh. It’s loud, like car alarm loud, and you know exactly where it comes from. It’s fear.
