Seconds and Inches in Austin
“But by the grace of God”: I hate that phrase. We misuse it and bastardize its meaning. What we mean is, “Look at that poor bastard over there. If God had not given me his grace, then I would be like that wretch living on the street.” As if God bestowed his grace on me, but not on another human. Is that the way God operates? How does God decide whom to give his grace?
Did God throw up a handful of grace and let it fall to earth like confetti, some scattered here, and more over there.? Does the wealthy and talented man have more grace than the mentally ill, homeless man? Does Donald Trump have more of God’s grace than the immigrant dying in a border camp?
Perhaps we confuse grace with luck.
If grace is a gift from God, bestowed on the millionaire megalomaniac and the homeless man alike, how does one explain the disparity of their circumstances?
I am afraid that conundrum cannot be explained. However, we can understand the meaning of the phrase, “but by the grace of god.”
Paul used those words, when he was writing to the Corinthians. He was explaining why he had to work harder than the other apostles spreading the gospel. Paul killed and persecuted Christians before God struck him down. Consequently he had a credibility problem. He is saying that the credit of his accomplishment, that of saving souls, belongs to God, not to him. “But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain. On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me.”
The good we do is the grace of God, not the fortune we experience. When we see the pitiful homeless man panhandling in the street, lets give him what we can: a dollar, a smile, a conversation, or a nod that says I recognize you as a part of me and an equal part of this world. Perhaps we can call the result of that action “the grace of God.”
Homeless Indians
I saw a homeless Indian family today: a couple with two children. They were holding a cardboard sign that had too many words scribbled on it. I couldn’t read it, as I turned into the grocery store parking lot.
You don’t see a lot of homeless Indians, Indians from India — not in America anyway. And certainly not in Texas. Their children looked delicate, and blankly stared with hungry eyes. When I turned around, they were not there. All I had in my pocket was a ten dollar bill, and I had written a hot check for that, but I would have given it to them, because they hit me too close to home.
I feel like I am seconds and inches away from where they are. But where are they? What did that sign say? How do you get from India to Texas and end up on the street? Where did they go? I turned the car around and they had vanished. Were they even real? Or were they a vision? It is sometimes difficult to distinguish true from false.
Are most homeless people crazy? I don’t know, but these people did not look crazy. They looked scared and sad. I am scared and sad too. I wanted to talk to them, to sit with them. I don’t have much to offer, but I would give it to them, because I am scared and sad just like they are.
You must be careful when you are scared and sad. You can’t tell normal people how you feel, because they don’t understand. No one likes fragility. No one likes people on the edge. I don’t like them, but I am them. I’m on the blurry border of sanity and insanity. One wrong step and I’m on the street with a goddamn cardboard sign. What would I write on it? How does one convey the sincerity and severity of that message on a piece of recycled garbage?
I poured my heart into a box, stood on the corner of wrong turns with jumbled thoughts and words, trying to trace my steps back to where I went wrong, where stumbling blocks became the rubble of my cursed existence, burying my long dead dreams.
The Indian family vanished. I kept my ten bucks, and thanked my muse.
Miles
What we are born to be gets lost in the miles, dead ends and switch backs so often that we wonder if our sacred path is only a hallucination, and our aspirations only delusions of a soul that was doomed before birth.
Innocence turned to anger turned to despair.
A perpetually dry mouth turns downward and opens in fear of what the darting eyes dread to see around the next wrong turn.
Let me play you a song I learned in the Texas penitentiary. You know I was really something down on Bourbon Street.
Sometimes you get the rhythm right and miss every last note.
The sun sets on the lost miles and the dry grass.
And the cacophony of traffic is the best song I know.
Donald
Gimme a half pint of Dark Eyes from the North side
and I’ll be feeling alright after awhile.
Warm beer and gin blossoms
Cold sweats and spiders
Regrets swallowed with silent thoughts
Wasted dreams kicked to the curb like stray cats.
Kill the pain and hide the truth
Behind eyes that have seen too much,
Too, too much to bear.
Watch me blow smoke signals to the indifferent gods,
And I’ll vanish into air.
Billy
Lost my love after I lost my leg.
Never said goodbye.
Now I’m on my last leg going around the bend.
Been there before and I’ll go there again before I die.
Excuse me if I don’t get up.
I’m a bit unsteady today.
Pass the weed and let me lay here.
When the sun goes down, I’ll be on my way.
Too young to feel this way and too goddamn old to care.
This corner is my home.
We all have our place here.
And there’s a better one waiting for me somewhere.
Until then I’ll chase the warm elusive peace that only comes in bits of unconsciousness.
Falling Apart
When it all falls apart,
there is no glue.
There are
no nails,
no screws,
only missing pieces,
where my soul
used to be.
It explodes,
shattering spirit
and light.
Total annihilation.
Except that
I am still here
to feel it all,
to feel the emptiness of me.
The fragility of man
on the edge.
Now I am nothing.
Need nothing.
Nothing.
I journey with
my broken soul
in my hands.
Broken by half-hearted,
careless living.
And I must repair it.
With the aid of angels,
I will be born again.
I must be.
I have places to go.
The City
The city chokes out my song.
It sticks in my throat like a dirty bong.
The song in my throat dies in the smog,
the lyrics lost in the fog,
forgotten like dreams at sunrise,
narrowly escaping my demise.
The skyline attacks my melody.
The asphalt turns it black like some malady
contracted by rats in the gutter.
My soul song sputters and sputters
until it breaks down
in my heart,
blowing my prison walls apart.
With a barbaric beat,
My song becomes a howl
buried in my fear until now.
It spews out like graffiti on a subway wall,
pouring out a waterfall
flooding the city streets and the neighborhoods,
screaming,
Look at Me. I did the best I could to be like you with a briefcase and an umbrella, but that’s not me. I’m not a sheep, fella. I can’t follow the herd. I gotta be heard. so, hear me now, as I take my last breath. Sing my song. It is life and death.
Gypsy
Smoke a camel in Jesus’ name.
Shoot one in his name too.
Smoke a big fat one
and forget my name.
Shoot one in your arm and forget your name too.
That little bird turned to a monkey on my back.
The last drop of sanity
turning it all black,
like the light in my eyes that died from all the smack.
My belly button blocks out my vision,
when I try to see my way through.
It’s all one bad decision.
The story ain’t nothing new,
but it’s my story,
and I’ll tell it to the street.
But the street don’t listen.
It just laughs every time we meet.
The street laughs in my face
like a witch,
throwing fireballs at me
down in a ditch.
You’re not gonna make it across today.
You’re gonna die, if I have my say.
Die motherfucker. Die like a child.
Step in front of that truck
and let it drive you wild.
Wild as the wind, blow away.
Never had it in you, never strong enough to stay.
So, blow away.
Maybe your soul will get another chance.
Blow away, Gypsy.
This is your last dance.
Burn It Down
I only want to hear the static.
I don’t want to hear the words.
The words are only plastic,
and the plastic changed from noun to verb.
I only want to hear the applause.
I don’t want to play the song.
The big bang is a lost cause.
The talent has come and gone.
So, turn up the distortion
and make it sound bad.
And when we’re all done,
color it blue and sad.
I’m blowing my mind like an electric spark,
shaking and shocking in the dark,
thrashing around like a live wire.
Turn it up, and let’s set it on fire.
This is the last song I know
and I’ve known it all along.
All along I’ve been moanin’ it low.
Low down to my balls
I’m screaming my song.
I’m getting up to paint my pink cloud blue,
to color the blue sky gray.
Crank up the thunder and lightning too.
I’m gonna turn it all to mud today.
That hurricane that blew through here carries my name.
Now the wind stopped blowing
and the world’s aflame.
Turn up the noise to about thirteen.
I’m gonna burn it all down like you’ve never seen.
Burn it to ashes and let the ocean carry it away,
wash it clean for judgement day.
Heal
The mind slips away
washed down the gutter
with the rest of the wasted.
The wasted and the abused
surrender to the stream of voices,
the unrecognizable voices
with the clear intent to seduce and conquer.
Conquer the already broken, half-alive minds and souls of bodies,
who wish that they were not alive at all.
Alive to feel, to exist in a vale flooded with confusion and pain,
washing away the life force.
What is left is a foundation of sorrow and illness,
the wreckage of cruelty and hate.
What can be salvaged that has not already been stolen?
Is there one cell not consumed by the cancer of hopelessness?
If there exists one cell,
what if we nurtured and loved that one cell
for one moment?
Put Some Dirt On It
Come on, boy.
You gotta paddle your own canoe.
Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.
You gotta pay that piper,
or you’re gonna pay through the nose.
If you play the fool,
you’re playing with fire.
And the man’s gonna get his pound of flesh.
Ain’t nobody gonna pull no strings for you
or pull your fat from the fire.
So, pull up your socks and pull your weight,
or you’ll be pushing up daisies.
Come on boy,
PUT SOME DIRT ON IT.
15th and 35
Standing on the corner of 15th and 35.
Been standing here so long,
I do believe I’m gonna die.
If I die, Lord and rise up to the sky,
nobody gonna miss me.
Nobody care if I live or die.
I never saw my momma,
and my daddy’s long gone.
Feel like I been raised on this corner.
Don’t matter if it’s right or wrong.
My legs are tired, and I’m getting so sick.
Ain’t no doctor on this corner
that can ever help me kick.
’Cause I need me a taste
and I need it right now.
Gonna shake to death on this corner.
Oh God, hear my solemn vow.
Don’t let me die on this corner, Dear God
and I’ll never dance with the devil again,
even when he tempt me so hard.
See Me
Ain’t afraid of being down no more
ain’t afraid of those dogs
My life done went
and my mind stays gone
most of the time
but he comes back to cash his check
every morning
The governer jumped off the roof
and busted his head next to the pool
but I still had to go to school
the next day
and hide under the desk
Only one apple left.
And so did my sister
but my momma said
don’t play with fire, boy
don’t play with fire
Lost my trombone in the ashes
My lips tell lies
but my eyes still see me
Still see me, see me
See me.
Home Free
I ain’t homeless.
I’m home free.
See this?
This is me shaking the dust of lies off my ass.
Shaking off the dust of mendacity of men who tell me that to be a man in this world, you gotta do this, and you gotta do that.
Well, all I gotta do is shake, baby.
Shake the dust of all that wrong shit off my body.
Get that wrong shit out my ears, ’cause it runs from my ears to my brain.
And it poisons my heart
and it corrupts my soul.
So I’m shaking it all off.
I’m shaking off all the signs.
I’m rounding third
And I am home free.
Queenie
Southside Queeie on her electric throne
throws the bottle high and watches it shatter
like memories, dreams and hearts
on the hot asphalt.
God’s face shines like diamonds in the broken blackness.
Sparks and lightning glitter in the air.
Brain zaps. Hate those.
Feel like I’m tipping over all the time.
All the time.
Zap zap zap in my head all day long.
Queenie falls to the curb in front of the bus stop.
Mary Magdelene’s face appears on her blood stained gown.
Speak to me, mama.
Speak to me.
Get daddy to carry me home, mama.
Get daddy to carry me home.
Birdman
Doused with Texas dew, I took off my wet clothes and hung them on a couple of low hanging branches above where I slept. Later the clothes will be wet with sweat, and there won’t be anything I can do about it. So, I lay out in the morning sun to warm myself. Of course, I fall asleep again and wake up sweaty, when Deb nudges me with her toe.
“Where’s the T-bird at, Birdman?”
“Under my hat, over there. Only a swallow left.”
“Swallow’s all I need this morning.”
And I get up and slip my shorts on.
“What are you doing that for? You know I like looking at you.”
“Ah, leave me alone, Deb. You know I can’t fuck no more.”
“Can’t? Or Won’t”
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s the difference between life and death, hon. It’s the difference between Life and Death.”
Buddy
The world tried to make a man out of me,
but I refused to grow up like I was told.
Or maybe I just did not know how to be,
and I didn’t want to join the fold.
I go to play,
because I hate to work.
I’d rather lay in the grass at the park.
Most times I don’t know where I’m going,
so I just wander around and talk
to whoever is there.
Sometimes I talk to myself
and the trees and the bears.
Bears in Texas?
Let me tell you about the bears.
The bears,
the bears are everywhere.
Blue bears in the bushes
and pink ones in the trees.
The bears are my friends
and they play with me.
Sometimes we stay up all night and dance.
There was this one time when I lost my pants.
And they took me away in a car with loud lights
to stay in a room with animals who weren’t so nice.
I missed my bears.
And I missed the sun.
They threw me down the stairs
and I started to run.
I gotta run sometimes,
but the bears keep up.
They love it in the sunshine.
Say, buddy can you spare a buck?
Dog
Being a homeless dog ain’t so bad. In fact, I’ve never felt so loved. He cried on my neck last night. And then we slept hard for the first time in a long time. We woke up to the sounds of barks, screams and sirens. And moved farther up into the woods, where we couldn’t hear anyone. And no one could hear him cry.
Later we walked to the street, where people gave us food. Some give me a treat everyday. And some don’t ever. He pours water into a puddle for me. So, it’s not that bad, but I’d like it better, if he weren’t so sad. He never talks about the past, but I hear him call out for her in the night. And I rest my head on his lap. And he scratches behind my ear. And we drift off again.
Mirror
Eating Halloween candy on Thanksgiving day.
Merry Christmas from the street, motherfucker.
What’s a resolution?
A Revolution is what we need.
I Resolve not to Revolve around sheep no more.
I’m gonna Evolve into a higher species,
but sometimes you gotta go low to get high.
I ain’t got to the bottom yet,
but it’s coming up fast.
So, don’t walk past me
like you’re deaf and blind,
’cause I got the answers you don’t want to face.
I’m the mirror you don’t want to see.
I’m the voice you hate to hear.
I am you.
And you are me.
Nothing
Getting okay with nothing hurts more at first.
Then the scab peels off and starts to bleed,
exposed to stares and hate and pity and lust,
and it seems like the bleeding will never stop.
Getting okay with nothing ain’t easy to do out here in the open
with eyes watching every move I make.
Getting okay with nothing is mean and murderous.
The daily death is accepted and surrendered to
because fighting is futile.
It takes time to learn to take it.
To learn to make it,
you gotta stop trying to make it out here.
Getting okay with nothing means getting okay with empty,
when you realize nothing can fill you up.
Getting okay with nothing ain’t nothing.
I ain’t nothing.
And you ain’t nothing too.
