ALL RESPONSES |
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The discrepancy between those
that have
and those that
have not
remains a moral issue
reaching way beyond class
racereligionageweightethnicity
it is a flaw in our judicial system
that stretches beyond divisions to include
party lines.
This is a flaw that creeps into our beds
at night disguised as goose down, satin,
600 Egyptian thread count and wraps us
in safe cocoons, safe dwellings that we
squeeze tightly into our fists for protection
against the hungry capitalist we sleep with. |
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It was the river’s plan
to cough us up in this town,
like trees from upstream
that never take root,
but float from bridge to bridge,
a freedom they can’t escape.
This is home, for now.
A place to live and drink,
to stay dry when it rains,
close enough to town
for Salvation Army lunch
and the requisite prayer.
When first frost falls,
we’ll find a ride to Florida’s
food banks and beaches
with old friends of the road.
At the end of the day, even
driftwood needs a place to sleep. |
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Who are these
spreading old rugs
under a bridge,
pillowing on concrete?
Ghosts, perhaps,
one hundred fifty years old,
who remember white hoods
that drift downstream
after the hanging.
Today she remembers,
pulls soft linen
over her head,
falls asleep again. |
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Give me your tired your poor your huddled masses
yearning to be free the wretched refuse of
your teeming shore
We’ve a thousand points of light in the great society
it’s the home of the brave the land of the free
dreams come true here.
We declared a war on poverty
you must have missed it
while the rest of us were upwardly mobile
and birthing our 2.1s. You may have missed it
during all that uproar about gas
going up to 4.00. I can’t afford
that for this SUV I can’t afford that.
It has a dvd. It’s soothes the kids after daycare.
You must have missed it
during our Olympic celebrations
or historic elections or recent
mind numbing recession. You
must have been on the losing side.
We fought the war between the states the war on crime
the war on drugs brown v. board of
education roe v. wade. We’re pretty much
done with all that now.
You must have done something wrong to deserve this
You must have chosen this at birth
You must, deep down, really like it
and don’t want to strive like the rest of us
elbow to elbow mba to mba
toned, too – just got back from the gym.
In the meantime, I noticed there are some
wonderful great dry pieces of cardboard
behind Frank’s Foods on 29th –
you know, the one where the cans are dusty
and you have to watch the dates but you can
get some great deals on canned corn. They are
dry, spacious, about 40 x 40 they’ll
house a child too if you have one
they won’t last long, get down there.
Look out! Greta’s wheeling that wobbly cart
she stole from Safeway she’s headed down Hiawatha
she’s going for that cardboard I told you about.
Really, you have to be more competitive. Buck up.
Just try a little harder. I don’t want to see this kind of thing anymore
when I stop for my frappe.
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a few years ago
the library
had a bench
on the edge of
its property
a little old man
sat there
with a sign
around his neck
“will work for food”
i was out for a walk
and had stopped
at the deli
for chicken and bagels
i passed him
on my way home
intent on eating my lunch
a favorite scripture
was running through
my head all the way
home
“whatever you do
unto the least of these
you do unto me.”
before i stepped
one foot into my yard
i turned around
i walked all the
way back to him
“have you had lunch yet?”
he said “no”
“i’ll share my lunch
with you”
the said “thank you”
i said “thank the lord”
i sat with him
handed him a piece of
chicken and a bagel
he showed me the one
item
he had in his backpack
it was a bible
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I.
An aqueduct for ebb and flow
conduit between lonely land masses
moving those who see galvanized Art Deco
in black and white,
Canon lens captures corne de vache,
and mason’s brick abutments
Provide shadow for stolen kisses on lover-walks
the water below, a languid lullaby,
this is their song.
As dreamt. As intended.
As designed. As engineered.
As manifested. As built.
II.
Echo tire tread on metal grates above; wvhadoom, wvhadooom, wvhadooom,
This is not the rhythm of sleep,
of safety,
smell of fresh-baked bread.
It is blankets of litter and urine and pain.
There are no holidays. No silver anniversaries.
No homecomings. There is no mundane.
No she does the dishes, he takes out the trash.
He takes your trash, my trash, home.
Boxes and discarded clothing,
her shoes, lost from playful feet out careless windows overhead.
It is not home.
It is a secret place we pity, but do nothing about.
III.
It does not exist on the periphery of our river-love,
happy tongues seeking other,
led quickly out from under, to stand again in the sun. |
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Freeway bridge midway from Omaha
to North Platte: no gang tags, no broken glass,
but bird shit everywhere, duck shit, squirrel shit,
unidentifiable piles of shit. Found the cleanest corner
and settled in for a sleepless night of jack brakes
and cattle cars.
Uphill bridge in Seattle, overlooking Steinbrueck Park
and the grey-green Sound: tiptoeing around
discarded needles, burger wrappers, bits of Brillo.
Thank Saint Jude for my thick rubber soles and getting so
high, high, high, high, high, high, high.
Trainyard bridge outside Cheyenne: not concrete, but earth,
soft and forgiving. Some blue-eyed boy is putting
his mouth on me. Every two hours the Burlington Northern bull
drives by, white Chevy looking for vagrants to pummel.
Mounds of dirt lumped over sleeping bags
camoflauge our bodies.
Lakeside bridge in Colorado Springs: jumped down
the vertical floodwall with no thought of how to return.
Naked, rinsing panties and socks in the water, dragging fingers
through mobs of minnows. For breakfast, Olde English 800
and half a joint. There is some peace here, as long as
the rain forgets to fall. |
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Sometimes you live such a sheltered life
you can’t even recognize what you’re seeing.
That mask could be a glove, useless ‘cause
it’s only one of the pair. That collection–
a bundle of towels, a stack of shingles?–
could mean loose change when sold.
That shelf is a bed. Or a piling. For sure,
it’s a different routine. Like a person
who’s taken a dump in a hole all her life
doesn’t know what to do at a toilette.
Wars have been fought because a king
didn’t know how to use a fork.
And was laughed at for it. Is this
a laughing matter, a way of handling
the awe in incredulity. Or guilt. Or shame?
Some of those things could be books.
That doesn’t make sense; under a bridge
isn’t the warmest nook for book worms.
Unless the paper’s used as fast-burning fuel.
Guessing why the blue jeans, fashionably
holey in the knee, are just lying there, cast
off, gets to be a bit scary. |
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[HEATED]
Far away
like
stars complaining
of coldness,
the asteroid
cars yell their
icy vagrancy
from the
freeway.
Barely holding
the boy’s
steering wheel
ear
the echoed cough
the heaving exhaust
drives the boy’s
thoughts to
ghosts
leaving
the gelid riverside
of the dark
like homeless men
just to
cuddle his warm
fear.
He shivers shivers
[CHILLED]
Above my
concrete sheets
the tires
tiredly
scream
across the bridge
I too
groan
in my room
under the
over
and only
pass
out
between
these vrooms:
the happy,
speeding through
the preheated
valley of dreams…
But
noise, like
money or cars, comes and
goes
I knows I know
It’s the cold the cold the cold
(his being unseen)
that
has no
end.
So tell me, Boy,
who doesn’t
know
fear from wind
anonymity from death
freedom from freeway,
what is colder
than asphalt
talking the winter
of language?
tell me with your shiver
please
what is colder
than me
understanding
all said things?
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| Chuck lived under bridge number 9. His feet missing toes. And two fingers gone at the first knuckle. He did not complain. This was what life dealt him. He could not dissuade the cold from coming. In fall he saw all the oranges and yellows in the rainbow, in the leaves of trees across the way. He stayed vibrant as they, his walkabout life, from Snelling to downtown, was his own natural way. No meds. No company other than his roving friends: a knife and a backpack and sign. When the wind slid in cold, he huddled his soul underneath a tarp that he stole from a construction site on 4th. He wrapped in a jacket and blanket, his spit dribbled down his face and froze in place, but he stayed, grown old, undivided, true to the voices that told him to stay--to stay--to stay. |
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It's cold in
a city of angels
even as sidewalks steam.
Detached angels transient angels
dancing on pins forgetful
prostrate to the ephemeral
with nails gripping earth.
It's all possible here.
a state of culture a dream
builds monuments in ether
does anyone really live here?
A sign off the 101
in Hollywood says,
if you lived here
you'd be homeless.
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They live in places
where people
are expected
to disappear
They stay
motionless,
yet journey—
quiet and dark;
foreign and sad—
faintly as stars
at the hour of dawn
They move uncertainly
through thoughts
of passing people
who don’t notice lives
that fade like the souls
of morning lamps
They move uncertainly—
faintly and dark;
foreign and sad—
And so they will die
the same way they live |
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When it rains, I sleep in the doorway
of a community playhouse. Lie on cold steps
wrapped in a green blanket. The blanket
has a slit in middle so I can wear it
during the day like a poncho, hands-free.
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She was a nurse for the homeless
in downtown St. Paul.
So busy they rarely had lunch.
Everyone got her kindness,
like a cake everlasting.
Sweet, filling, and never too much.
She listened:
Alone, drugs, kids missing,
jobless, no home at all.
Husbands hating, or beating,
she offered all shelter,
a doctor, safety, or food.
On very hot days she walked
down to the tracks
to find family with children, all lost.
Disoriented, dehydrated,
she brought them water
and calm, soothing, like shade.
Below freezing in winter
She walked out under freeways,
brought blankets to
to those who lived there.
She volunteered to change the
most difficult dressings:
amputations, gangrene, burns.
She bound up their wounds,
washed feet of the homeless.
But I never heard this from her.
Just affectionate stories of
people she cared for,
As if they were simply
our extended family.
Our cousins,
who rarely
came home.
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Today, if you ask, people will say
that the American dream is a lie.
A farce, an advertising for failure,
in a country that cares more
about the banks and Wall street,
than the welfare of its people.
White picket fences dreams
are substituted by chain link fences
with signs that say "Repossessed."
Warm living rooms where kids could play
are now obsolete luxuries
for families fallen into disgrace.
Tent cities do not make news
since we prefer to turn the eyes
and look at the disgraces
of other countries but ours
and in the silence of our pity
we hope to never catch the plague.
No TV, nor medicine cabinet,
the car may be the only refuge left,
and for the less fortunate,
the underpass of a bridge
may do while the weather holds.
God have mercy
because man sure won't.
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