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Description
I

Just for everything you've done.
I want to live in the past.
I want to go out there and meet the people who
break down on some of those huddled traffic burdened streets—
with dark and crouching scraping shadows of gangly skyscrapers—
gangling in wind because of the wind—
walking amidst too many people and over four foot squares of paved walkway separated
by lines—
step on a crack and you’ll break your mother’s back—
so forth down ways I haven’t quite been
yet it is so large and in those cracks
sometimes are weeds cut
down by the trampling hooves of the great suited in black men and women
of the business world in this city
anyways
or the raggedy black man bum with a ribbed orange beanie cap,
becoming grey stubble mixed with some black
the way pubic beard of a black man sometimes grows sheathing his face all curly thin
probably the same on his head
only under the orange beanie there
isn’t any way at all to tell so then we
must assume that is how he is unless
he’s straightened his hair with lye however unlikely—
he’s too poor to buy lye and
he’s urinating in the orange garbage can made of tin
or steel or some metal painted orange—
the can has little diamond negative
spaces because it is a meshed can on
the corner of the street near the tall pink
building in this city where maybe a
stone gargoyle sits but there isn’t one
at least I can’t see it up there in the
harrowing dark and clouding blue sky. The
wind would blow these men’s umbrellas up in
to themselves if it were raining.
The black bum man hasn’t got an umbrella—
he’d have to find another place to piss or secretly piss on the shiny shoes of the
people who’ve got umbrella’s at the bus stop or in the train depot or at the book
depository—
that’s where all of the bum’s like to go and do their bum thing either sitting on the stone
benches smoking their cheap cigarettes, drinking their vodka the wino’s the
wine—
I’m not sure they’re all bums
or there’re any wino’s
but they are homeless
and the only bums around town
with their stolen shopping carts
with trash bags full of clothes or a striped black tie they found in a dumpster or the
Jesus Christ action figure they found still in plastic and cardboard wrappage, never even
opened, brand new—
on the brick benches
or laying down on the grass where there are other blades
of grass and other razor blades
left by someone,
the bum’s aren’t to sure why they’re there unless they are the ones who left
them, or talking to other bums about goods
under bridges or dredged rivers they can’t shoot
their stuff there anymore now
they go near the noisy high way.

Walking to our car
we passed by this black bum he was fat
I don’t know how maybe he used his bum money
on beer
or real food,
we saw him near the burger diner rummaging through a dumpster,
the man was looking through a black plastic bag and he was in raggier clothes
than I’ve usually seen on old town bums but
he had a black man mustache that could be like stubblier than one,
so not a real mustache,
just hadn’t shaved for a while,
his hair dark, and rummaging through a dumpster or a shopping cart we looked at this man in pity and wondered—
we wanted to go talk to the man have an interview of some sort and he just looked at us
indifferent or paranoid, we didn’t go talk to him—
probably stab or rape us, hahahahaha—
that is what we thought, then—
and when we got to the intersection twenty feet away standing
waiting
for the light to favor our direction a little black Japanese car the window tint dark and blasting bass drives by
and from behind we hear the old young looking bum yell out some strange
bum hymn or bum tongue
in anger –
at this car which was driving by which he was yelling at,
including the ‘fuck’ word
and we laughed at his pitiful attempt at setting at the inconvenient
driver of the Japanese car for inconveniencing
every one in the radius of twenty
five feet with that brain dumbing bass and unsafe reckless driving speed.
I saw a bum once yell at a car.

Another time
further back on the same street and
in time
a town parade that had been done and now passed
we walked back in front of the new museum which was the old free library
made of stone and the bums were all downtown hollering drunk
having their good bum times
and I don’t know why or where there scuffle started
but this one did end in the street in front of that old stone building.
Two bums in the street and two bums on the sidewalk with one cart full of the usual bum
junk—
the two bums in the street—
one bum hits the other in the back of the head and then the hit bum swings around and
like slinky cobblestone missing a foothold misses the bums face, and the bum
who started the fight jumps on the other’s back because the other swung too far so
now one bum is on the back of the other like a monkey on his back that’s
probably why they’re fighting because of some dumb shortchanging on the
changing of their junk or booze but they can all buy booze it must’ve been junk or
maybe one bum stole the other’s booze and he’s mad at him or anyways these
monkey bums are clinging to each other in terrible fury
like drugged rats in a gutter—
that’s what they looked like
scuffling at each other
in the gutter
with ratty clothing blue jackets
with white dirty hood pull-string
and ripped jeans
and ratty beards
or stubble
or however they like to describe their own gross facial hair—
the two bums with cart look at each other and then to the skirmish probably enjoying this
as much as we are only the chances of them being high or drunk and enjoying it
even more are ten times the joy we get from watching these two desolate and poor
bums have it out on our historic antique street in front of the library—
and as was expected the bums fell
over too drunk to hold the weight of each other and they rolled from the sidewalk gutter
closer to the road where vehicles usually drive—
they don’t usually drive on the sidewalks—
and the bums who don’t usually roll in the street but in the grass on grass are now rolling
like car wheels on the blacktop street—
hot from the summertime sun—
and then this big white truck,
suburban assault vehicle
is what we call them—
this SUV nearly runs over the head of the first bum and the giant suburban assault vehicle
doesn’t decide to slow down or even stop for what they consider this street scum
the bum who began the physical part of their argument gets off the possible thief
or maybe even a child rapist—
that’s why the other is mad—
and the bum who was attacked in the first place takes off along the sidewalk past the
dumbfounded bums and the car—
now it must not be his Hoover cart—
and he goes on past them and past the parking lot
and the green rusted old iron fence four feet up on the concrete wall
I don’t watch where he is going we decide
it’s probably not a very good idea to stick around
with the three other bums maybe
who were just high or drunk and looking for a fight
so we get on with our walk.
I saw bums fighting in the street once.

There was a time too that this old lady,
really disgusting bum lady,
was sitting along the road to a shopping strip mall
and near the traffic light
to exit the area and on the concrete curb
in her dirty pants; I don’t remember what they looked like except
that she was dirty and her pants were tinged brown probably from the creek mud in the
now rainy season where she sleeps or makes a little fire which reminds me of a bum encampment I found—
I probably found it deserted—
there was this two foot diameter metal tube
with ash log in it
from a little fire to light the bum’s hovel
and a ripped up sleeping bag
that was blue and inside was red flannel material and it wasn’t zipped up
it had been thrown around no good and it’s threads were stranded
in the mud and tree leafs along with empty deteriorating brown garbage bags and empty
beer and vodka bottles—
that was the camp but the old bum lady was kind of like it
with her jacket that was blue and thin
with interior lining that was like a sports warm up pair of pants,
probably she’s never known or worn them
to associate it with the jacket, she just knows
it is white cotton like material that is thin
and doesn’t keep her very warm only she says it’s
better than nothing
which really is what she is thinking
and all she’s got in that trashed bum brain of hers
with ragged rope hair untwined with dirt probably
from sleeping in the creek and there is a piece
of ripped green leaf
may be a walnut tree or an oak which are native to the area
maybe some eucalyptus
but they aren’t near the creeks
but maybe she didn’t come from the creek
maybe from the park where I know there are eucalyptus—
and every time I pass by those trees I always remember from some school teacher or
something from the news at how flammable these trees are and I’m devious but
not nearly enough to burn down eighty foot tall eucalyptus trees even though they
aren’t even native to the area—
at any rate there is a piece of a leaf in her hair and she’s thinking to herself—

“I’ve got this mistletoe which I stole, and now I am going to turn it over for a small profit to buy more cheap vodka to put in my bag because both the bag and the bottle are going to be empty. Since they sell alcohol in the pharmacy, that is where I will go buy. Since I am close. I can’t wait. Oh. I am kind of hungry. Maybe I’ll go buy some candy too…mmmm. I love candy and – what the hell is that person doing!?”

“HEY GET THE FUCK OVER HERE! AND BLAH BLAH BLAH…”

She doesn’t know what she is doing
she is drunk
I can’t say I don’t pity her
she makes me sick
but irritates me more.
I watched children with their mothers avoid this desolate woman.
I’ve seen a drunk bum lady drinking vodka and selling mistletoe.

There was one bum
sitting against a varnished red brick building wall
slumped over stubble just like all
of them in blue with
grey and green tight flannel collar poking up
out of a rugged over coat
of thin material not quite so nice as a jacket—
a long sleeve shirt with buttons at the chest neck
and sleeve collars
and he looked asleep
(double chin hung over too, neck down and lumped against his chest darker under eyes) and aged with wrinkles over eyes
and under mouth
and his hands there are blue veins receding
he’s got bruises on his neck
and you can see one on his ankle where his pant leg lifts up a little
and he’s a diabetic,
holding a sign with the pudgeoned hands
on cardboard and a permanent marker
he found in the street between his thumb and his forefingers
resting on his lap
while steadying the sign straight up for pedestrians:
“Why lie? I need a beer.”
This sappy old man with gloves
really isn’t very old but he looks old
he’s sick and he’ll die of alcoholism.
I’ve seen a bum holding a sign, why lie? I need a beer.

The retarded bum
who’s thin
and the old caretaker bum of the retarded bum
who’s fat
were always seen walking along the creeks.
They reminded me of George and Lenny.
I don’t know quite what they ever did.
I wonder where they are now.
They wore flannel and ripped jeans
probably from good
will I remember defendant girls for the poor
Saying:

“They’re helpless because he’s mentally ILL and they’re just two bums headed and going on rough times sticking together – great bum friends.”

They wandered around the creek where I found a stiletto knife once.
I remember once seeing Lenny eating an apple
and the poor duo were walking along while I was passing them
and they looked at me,
George with great trembling eyes
he looked like he was looking at me and seeing that I shouldn’t be so desolate in life and
the great big heart Lenny said “Hello”
to me and I think I remember his eyes welling up
but it is just what I want to remember this kind big old
despairing tall bum who had a helpless childhood
who had a helpless life
and there he is under the arm of his friend
who is a bum too,
who probably drinks,
who probably gets high,
these are the bums I know.
But I don’t know if he does or not.
And there is this great Lenny
just walking by,
eating an apple,
desolate,
despairing,
crying.

II

I’ve seen bums huddled under the yearning masses
Enveloped in immense bronze arms
And seething with resent and put forth for dollars to keep warm.
And the green beetles on their shoulders are as imminent as an impending
disease inspired and given life to these grievances

O, give me a cup of apple juice.
O, give me an empty carton of orange juice.
O, give me,
Empty tired and worn mother of four
Empty tired and worn worker for food
Empty tired and worn mistletoe grandma
Empty tired and worn honestly give me a beer
Empty tired and worn negro urinating on street
Empty tired and worn bum companions
Empty tired and worn pugilists
Empty tired and worn ladder preacher
Empty tired and worn Hoover carts
Empty tired and worn Vietnam veteran
Empty tired and worn and green bird home body.
O, give me
your tired your huddled your cold your yarning your masses your sentenced your poor
your weak your detached your desolate your despairing your crying your
lonesome your silent
I demand to have I will not talk I will not answer I do not agree I will not sign I will not
Waive
We’ve severed the spine of our marionette.
We’ve severed the thought process of our marionette.
We’ve severed it all dangling wooden legs marionette.

Description
I

Just for everything you've done.
I want to live in the past.
I want to go out there and meet the people who
break down on some of those huddled traffic burdened streets—
with dark and crouching scraping shadows of gangly skyscrapers—
gangling in wind because of the wind—
walking amidst too many people and over four foot squares of paved walkway separated
by lines—
step on a crack and you’ll break your mother’s back—
so forth down ways I haven’t quite been
yet it is so large and in those cracks
sometimes are weeds cut
down by the trampling hooves of the great suited in black men and women
of the business world in this city
anyways
or the raggedy black man bum with a ribbed orange beanie cap,
becoming grey stubble mixed with some black
the way pubic beard of a black man sometimes grows sheathing his face all curly thin
probably the same on his head
only under the orange beanie there
isn’t any way at all to tell so then we
must assume that is how he is unless
he’s straightened his hair with lye however unlikely—
he’s too poor to buy lye and
he’s urinating in the orange garbage can made of tin
or steel or some metal painted orange—
the can has little diamond negative
spaces because it is a meshed can on
the corner of the street near the tall pink
building in this city where maybe a
stone gargoyle sits but there isn’t one
at least I can’t see it up there in the
harrowing dark and clouding blue sky. The
wind would blow these men’s umbrellas up in
to themselves if it were raining.
The black bum man hasn’t got an umbrella—
he’d have to find another place to piss or secretly piss on the shiny shoes of the
people who’ve got umbrella’s at the bus stop or in the train depot or at the book
depository—
that’s where all of the bum’s like to go and do their bum thing either sitting on the stone
benches smoking their cheap cigarettes, drinking their vodka the wino’s the
wine—
I’m not sure they’re all bums
or there’re any wino’s
but they are homeless
and the only bums around town
with their stolen shopping carts
with trash bags full of clothes or a striped black tie they found in a dumpster or the
Jesus Christ action figure they found still in plastic and cardboard wrappage, never even
opened, brand new—
on the brick benches
or laying down on the grass where there are other blades
of grass and other razor blades
left by someone,
the bum’s aren’t to sure why they’re there unless they are the ones who left
them, or talking to other bums about goods
under bridges or dredged rivers they can’t shoot
their stuff there anymore now
they go near the noisy high way.

Walking to our car
we passed by this black bum he was fat
I don’t know how maybe he used his bum money
on beer
or real food,
we saw him near the burger diner rummaging through a dumpster,
the man was looking through a black plastic bag and he was in raggier clothes
than I’ve usually seen on old town bums but
he had a black man mustache that could be like stubblier than one,
so not a real mustache,
just hadn’t shaved for a while,
his hair dark, and rummaging through a dumpster or a shopping cart we looked at this man in pity and wondered—
we wanted to go talk to the man have an interview of some sort and he just looked at us
indifferent or paranoid, we didn’t go talk to him—
probably stab or rape us, hahahahaha—
that is what we thought, then—
and when we got to the intersection twenty feet away standing
waiting
for the light to favor our direction a little black Japanese car the window tint dark and blasting bass drives by
and from behind we hear the old young looking bum yell out some strange
bum hymn or bum tongue
in anger –
at this car which was driving by which he was yelling at,
including the ‘fuck’ word
and we laughed at his pitiful attempt at setting at the inconvenient
driver of the Japanese car for inconveniencing
every one in the radius of twenty
five feet with that brain dumbing bass and unsafe reckless driving speed.
I saw a bum once yell at a car.

Another time
further back on the same street and
in time
a town parade that had been done and now passed
we walked back in front of the new museum which was the old free library
made of stone and the bums were all downtown hollering drunk
having their good bum times
and I don’t know why or where there scuffle started
but this one did end in the street in front of that old stone building.
Two bums in the street and two bums on the sidewalk with one cart full of the usual bum
junk—
the two bums in the street—
one bum hits the other in the back of the head and then the hit bum swings around and
like slinky cobblestone missing a foothold misses the bums face, and the bum
who started the fight jumps on the other’s back because the other swung too far so
now one bum is on the back of the other like a monkey on his back that’s
probably why they’re fighting because of some dumb shortchanging on the
changing of their junk or booze but they can all buy booze it must’ve been junk or
maybe one bum stole the other’s booze and he’s mad at him or anyways these
monkey bums are clinging to each other in terrible fury
like drugged rats in a gutter—
that’s what they looked like
scuffling at each other
in the gutter
with ratty clothing blue jackets
with white dirty hood pull-string
and ripped jeans
and ratty beards
or stubble
or however they like to describe their own gross facial hair—
the two bums with cart look at each other and then to the skirmish probably enjoying this
as much as we are only the chances of them being high or drunk and enjoying it
even more are ten times the joy we get from watching these two desolate and poor
bums have it out on our historic antique street in front of the library—
and as was expected the bums fell
over too drunk to hold the weight of each other and they rolled from the sidewalk gutter
closer to the road where vehicles usually drive—
they don’t usually drive on the sidewalks—
and the bums who don’t usually roll in the street but in the grass on grass are now rolling
like car wheels on the blacktop street—
hot from the summertime sun—
and then this big white truck,
suburban assault vehicle
is what we call them—
this SUV nearly runs over the head of the first bum and the giant suburban assault vehicle
doesn’t decide to slow down or even stop for what they consider this street scum
the bum who began the physical part of their argument gets off the possible thief
or maybe even a child rapist—
that’s why the other is mad—
and the bum who was attacked in the first place takes off along the sidewalk past the
dumbfounded bums and the car—
now it must not be his Hoover cart—
and he goes on past them and past the parking lot
and the green rusted old iron fence four feet up on the concrete wall
I don’t watch where he is going we decide
it’s probably not a very good idea to stick around
with the three other bums maybe
who were just high or drunk and looking for a fight
so we get on with our walk.
I saw bums fighting in the street once.

There was a time too that this old lady,
really disgusting bum lady,
was sitting along the road to a shopping strip mall
and near the traffic light
to exit the area and on the concrete curb
in her dirty pants; I don’t remember what they looked like except
that she was dirty and her pants were tinged brown probably from the creek mud in the
now rainy season where she sleeps or makes a little fire which reminds me of a bum encampment I found—
I probably found it deserted—
there was this two foot diameter metal tube
with ash log in it
from a little fire to light the bum’s hovel
and a ripped up sleeping bag
that was blue and inside was red flannel material and it wasn’t zipped up
it had been thrown around no good and it’s threads were stranded
in the mud and tree leafs along with empty deteriorating brown garbage bags and empty
beer and vodka bottles—
that was the camp but the old bum lady was kind of like it
with her jacket that was blue and thin
with interior lining that was like a sports warm up pair of pants,
probably she’s never known or worn them
to associate it with the jacket, she just knows
it is white cotton like material that is thin
and doesn’t keep her very warm only she says it’s
better than nothing
which really is what she is thinking
and all she’s got in that trashed bum brain of hers
with ragged rope hair untwined with dirt probably
from sleeping in the creek and there is a piece
of ripped green leaf
may be a walnut tree or an oak which are native to the area
maybe some eucalyptus
but they aren’t near the creeks
but maybe she didn’t come from the creek
maybe from the park where I know there are eucalyptus—
and every time I pass by those trees I always remember from some school teacher or
something from the news at how flammable these trees are and I’m devious but
not nearly enough to burn down eighty foot tall eucalyptus trees even though they
aren’t even native to the area—
at any rate there is a piece of a leaf in her hair and she’s thinking to herself—

“I’ve got this mistletoe which I stole, and now I am going to turn it over for a small profit to buy more cheap vodka to put in my bag because both the bag and the bottle are going to be empty. Since they sell alcohol in the pharmacy, that is where I will go buy. Since I am close. I can’t wait. Oh. I am kind of hungry. Maybe I’ll go buy some candy too…mmmm. I love candy and – what the hell is that person doing!?”

“HEY GET THE FUCK OVER HERE! AND BLAH BLAH BLAH…”

She doesn’t know what she is doing
she is drunk
I can’t say I don’t pity her
she makes me sick
but irritates me more.
I watched children with their mothers avoid this desolate woman.
I’ve seen a drunk bum lady drinking vodka and selling mistletoe.

There was one bum
sitting against a varnished red brick building wall
slumped over stubble just like all
of them in blue with
grey and green tight flannel collar poking up
out of a rugged over coat
of thin material not quite so nice as a jacket—
a long sleeve shirt with buttons at the chest neck
and sleeve collars
and he looked asleep
(double chin hung over too, neck down and lumped against his chest darker under eyes) and aged with wrinkles over eyes
and under mouth
and his hands there are blue veins receding
he’s got bruises on his neck
and you can see one on his ankle where his pant leg lifts up a little
and he’s a diabetic,
holding a sign with the pudgeoned hands
on cardboard and a permanent marker
he found in the street between his thumb and his forefingers
resting on his lap
while steadying the sign straight up for pedestrians:
“Why lie? I need a beer.”
This sappy old man with gloves
really isn’t very old but he looks old
he’s sick and he’ll die of alcoholism.
I’ve seen a bum holding a sign, why lie? I need a beer.

The retarded bum
who’s thin
and the old caretaker bum of the retarded bum
who’s fat
were always seen walking along the creeks.
They reminded me of George and Lenny.
I don’t know quite what they ever did.
I wonder where they are now.
They wore flannel and ripped jeans
probably from good
will I remember defendant girls for the poor
Saying:

“They’re helpless because he’s mentally ILL and they’re just two bums headed and going on rough times sticking together – great bum friends.”

They wandered around the creek where I found a stiletto knife once.
I remember once seeing Lenny eating an apple
and the poor duo were walking along while I was passing them
and they looked at me,
George with great trembling eyes
he looked like he was looking at me and seeing that I shouldn’t be so desolate in life and
the great big heart Lenny said “Hello”
to me and I think I remember his eyes welling up
but it is just what I want to remember this kind big old
despairing tall bum who had a helpless childhood
who had a helpless life
and there he is under the arm of his friend
who is a bum too,
who probably drinks,
who probably gets high,
these are the bums I know.
But I don’t know if he does or not.
And there is this great Lenny
just walking by,
eating an apple,
desolate,
despairing,
crying.

II

I’ve seen bums huddled under the yearning masses
Enveloped in immense bronze arms
And seething with resent and put forth for dollars to keep warm.
And the green beetles on their shoulders are as imminent as an impending
disease inspired and given life to these grievances

O, give me a cup of apple juice.
O, give me an empty carton of orange juice.
O, give me,
Empty tired and worn mother of four
Empty tired and worn worker for food
Empty tired and worn mistletoe grandma
Empty tired and worn honestly give me a beer
Empty tired and worn negro urinating on street
Empty tired and worn bum companions
Empty tired and worn pugilists
Empty tired and worn ladder preacher
Empty tired and worn Hoover carts
Empty tired and worn Vietnam veteran
Empty tired and worn and green bird home body.
O, give me
your tired your huddled your cold your yarning your masses your sentenced your poor
your weak your detached your desolate your despairing your crying your
lonesome your silent
I demand to have I will not talk I will not answer I do not agree I will not sign I will not
Waive
We’ve severed the spine of our marionette.
We’ve severed the thought process of our marionette.
We’ve severed it all dangling wooden legs marionette.