Money is the Opiate of the Masses, now.
Four walls and a sink, to call my own.
I own my room for 7 days, for $300.
The price of dinner for my dad.
A Real Person again.
High from Privacy,
exhilarated by my money in the bank.
All the world exists for me.
Want to eat: I can.
Want to sleep: I can.
All it took was money, after all that.
Half my Neuroses melt away instantly
-Simply because I now have choices.
Choices the broke person lacks,
simple privacy the homeless don't have,
Respect, which money does buy.
How can I explain the impotence,
the insecurity, the hunger, the jealousy,
the fears, the shame, the filth,
that comes,
from simply being without?
I can't.
No one can understand
unless they have been there.
Ask an old drunk, dying alone in a gutter.
Ask a full-fledged junkie, screaming himself silent
in a jail cell, for lack of medicine.
Ask a new mother, who has just given birth.
You'll never understand any of them.
Until you are one.
My "friends" come back around,
happy to see I have money again.
Now they can see me
without guilt or shame.
I use my room's sink ten times a day,
to wash my face,
because I can; I paid for it.
How wealthy America truly is,
where for $300 a week
I get my own room with a sink
for 7 days.
No more washing at Safeway
under the dubious eyes
of Security Guards.
I check on my room several times a day;
Expecting it to disappear like a mirage.
But every time I turn the lock,
everything is just as I left it.
Lights still on, window still open,
bed unmade, smelling of my brand of cigarettes.
Home at last.
Home at last.
Home at last,
for now.
Showing posts with label Homeless. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Homeless. Show all posts
Friday, October 9, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Thoughts: More and More on Homelessness
I would not wish homelessness upon anyone. Indeed, most of you will never experience homelessness in the narrowest sense of the word. Certainly not for a year, probably not even for a few weeks, out of your entire life.
Homelessness: The state of having zero Capital (economic, social, emotional). Without possession or choice of possessing money, living accommodations, and/or food. Bereft of purpose, means, equitable peers, beyond any help but charity.
As one of my pen-pals pointed out: "You are the only homeless person I've ever really known." I'd never thought about it quite that way before (since I know tons of homeless people), but I'm sure she is not the only person I know like that.
By experience the Homeless largely cluster together for comfort, like herd animals, herded together by prices they can't afford, "No Loitering" signs, "Bathrooms are for Customers Only", and Police. Yes, I am homeless. And what's more I've spent many years of my life this way. It's a part of me that can't be taken away, even with money, a house, or a car.
When you are chronically homeless as I am you get yo observe people in all sorts of different social situations that would rarely have come up otherwise. If you ever wonder who your true friends are, just tell everyone you know that you're now broke and homeless. Watch those that scurry away, see them who try to control you, adore those that offer genuine help, loathe then that vilify you.
The sad truth of my life's experience so far is that, as Dostoevsky pointed out, the poor do have a deeper and more meaningful camaraderie than the wealthy. The poor do share more readily with each other than the wealthy. And possibly, just maybe, the poor actually feel more than the wealthy. As the constant threat at a biological level of Hunger and unfulfilled primitive needs keeps the poor person more alive, more aware, and thus, more appreciative, of all of life's gifts.
I have seen money change people, I've seen relationships change people, I've seen jobs change people, I've seen religions change people. When you are broke, you have nothing to hide. How much more honest can you be?
Homelessness: The state of having zero Capital (economic, social, emotional). Without possession or choice of possessing money, living accommodations, and/or food. Bereft of purpose, means, equitable peers, beyond any help but charity.
As one of my pen-pals pointed out: "You are the only homeless person I've ever really known." I'd never thought about it quite that way before (since I know tons of homeless people), but I'm sure she is not the only person I know like that.
By experience the Homeless largely cluster together for comfort, like herd animals, herded together by prices they can't afford, "No Loitering" signs, "Bathrooms are for Customers Only", and Police. Yes, I am homeless. And what's more I've spent many years of my life this way. It's a part of me that can't be taken away, even with money, a house, or a car.
When you are chronically homeless as I am you get yo observe people in all sorts of different social situations that would rarely have come up otherwise. If you ever wonder who your true friends are, just tell everyone you know that you're now broke and homeless. Watch those that scurry away, see them who try to control you, adore those that offer genuine help, loathe then that vilify you.
The sad truth of my life's experience so far is that, as Dostoevsky pointed out, the poor do have a deeper and more meaningful camaraderie than the wealthy. The poor do share more readily with each other than the wealthy. And possibly, just maybe, the poor actually feel more than the wealthy. As the constant threat at a biological level of Hunger and unfulfilled primitive needs keeps the poor person more alive, more aware, and thus, more appreciative, of all of life's gifts.
I have seen money change people, I've seen relationships change people, I've seen jobs change people, I've seen religions change people. When you are broke, you have nothing to hide. How much more honest can you be?
Friday, September 18, 2009
Story: The Homeless Cold
Getting sick always brings out the "Punative Universe" Neurosis in me. The obesession that I must have done something morally or spiritually incorrect recently and the effect of that behavior is my current viral infection, my illness, my cold.
Waking this morning I discovred that I had to pee, was very cold yet had a fever, dry mouth and throat, every part of my body was heavier, especially my head, and I was dumber. Despite the urge to pee and dry mouth i could not move from my sleeping bag. All will-power was gone from me. Summoning just enough to take my morning methadone and Ibuprofin, finally to pee, then down I lay again. No doubt about it: I was sick. Sick and Homeless, a miserabler combination. Tried to think of places I could stay to recuperate, but my foggy mind refused to work. It was cold outside of my sleeping bag. No will to move. Something in the night had changed me, when only last evening I seemed in fine health, this morning all was different in my world.
Drifting in and out of sleep, by blessed miracle it got warmer and the sun came out. I had to pee again, but lacked the will. When I finally could move again I peed and noticed it was almost noon; five hours had passed. I'd never before slept so late in the park. My parched throat looked to my water bottle which was inexplicably filled with watter. Though I had been positive I had drinken it all during the night.
Everything took on the greatest of Mass and difficulty. Each movement took thought, each though took energy, there seemed to be no energy, zombified as only a cold can do, I didn't even feel hunger. The world was so sunny and inviting I no longer worried about being indoors, but my tobacco supply being low I knew I would need to go out and replenish it. I couldn't stay in the park all day anyways; that's the way to get caught by the cops or park rangers.
Putting one foot in front of the other I slowly, painfully, methodically, and humbly, began the crawl of my day with sickness. Resolved not to wallow in self-pity as I have in days of past sickness. To move slowly and simply. Read and relax. Knowing with faith that with time it will pass.
Waking this morning I discovred that I had to pee, was very cold yet had a fever, dry mouth and throat, every part of my body was heavier, especially my head, and I was dumber. Despite the urge to pee and dry mouth i could not move from my sleeping bag. All will-power was gone from me. Summoning just enough to take my morning methadone and Ibuprofin, finally to pee, then down I lay again. No doubt about it: I was sick. Sick and Homeless, a miserabler combination. Tried to think of places I could stay to recuperate, but my foggy mind refused to work. It was cold outside of my sleeping bag. No will to move. Something in the night had changed me, when only last evening I seemed in fine health, this morning all was different in my world.
Drifting in and out of sleep, by blessed miracle it got warmer and the sun came out. I had to pee again, but lacked the will. When I finally could move again I peed and noticed it was almost noon; five hours had passed. I'd never before slept so late in the park. My parched throat looked to my water bottle which was inexplicably filled with watter. Though I had been positive I had drinken it all during the night.
Everything took on the greatest of Mass and difficulty. Each movement took thought, each though took energy, there seemed to be no energy, zombified as only a cold can do, I didn't even feel hunger. The world was so sunny and inviting I no longer worried about being indoors, but my tobacco supply being low I knew I would need to go out and replenish it. I couldn't stay in the park all day anyways; that's the way to get caught by the cops or park rangers.
Putting one foot in front of the other I slowly, painfully, methodically, and humbly, began the crawl of my day with sickness. Resolved not to wallow in self-pity as I have in days of past sickness. To move slowly and simply. Read and relax. Knowing with faith that with time it will pass.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Theory: Class Differences, Homostasis, & Isolation
I've described in these pages before how real "class" is as well as how comforting routines can make even the most terrible and deprived of lives bearable and even pleasant. In addition I've shown repeatedly how the breaking of my established routines by: visitors, visiting others, traveling, interlopers, talking to others on the phone, writing to others, etc... Can break the comfort of my routine, especially when the intruder or place of visit is of a different class than myself (i.e. higher classed). Since I am homeless I represent the lowest class and thus even middle-class people, to me, are very different and privileged.
A simple example of this is sleeping over at someones house once in a while. Because the class comforts of people with a home (refrigerator, TV, laundry, shower, etc..) are so largely disproportionate to my own, I slowly become acclimated to my visits and I begin to crave and even depend on my sleep-overs. Thus the more I visit the higher class, the more miserable my lower class status becomes. This effect has been well documented by Psychiatrists and Psychologists, most notably in the book about gestalt therapy "Ego, Hunger, and Aggression."
Because of this fact, greatly, I choose not to spend my time surrounded by class-comforts which aren't really mine or readily accessible to me. To do so would be masochistic or sociopathic. Some may call me an isolationist and I could not argue with them, though i get along well with the poor, the downtrodden, the different, and other member of my lower class. I would plead that I am simply in an early stage of psychological healing and as such need to be left alone.
It is my sincerest hope and prayer that one day I will have developed enough materially, emotionally, and spiritually, so that I can accept all beings as equals regardless of class. But I'm not quite there yet!
A simple example of this is sleeping over at someones house once in a while. Because the class comforts of people with a home (refrigerator, TV, laundry, shower, etc..) are so largely disproportionate to my own, I slowly become acclimated to my visits and I begin to crave and even depend on my sleep-overs. Thus the more I visit the higher class, the more miserable my lower class status becomes. This effect has been well documented by Psychiatrists and Psychologists, most notably in the book about gestalt therapy "Ego, Hunger, and Aggression."
Because of this fact, greatly, I choose not to spend my time surrounded by class-comforts which aren't really mine or readily accessible to me. To do so would be masochistic or sociopathic. Some may call me an isolationist and I could not argue with them, though i get along well with the poor, the downtrodden, the different, and other member of my lower class. I would plead that I am simply in an early stage of psychological healing and as such need to be left alone.
It is my sincerest hope and prayer that one day I will have developed enough materially, emotionally, and spiritually, so that I can accept all beings as equals regardless of class. But I'm not quite there yet!
Friday, July 10, 2009
Poem: Where are You?
I'm sitting here at the beach.
The sun is setting,
I'm outside,
eating a sandwich
and drinking some beer.
Where are you, my Love?
When the sun sets
I'll walk in the woods.
Find my blanket.
Curl up in it and go to sleep.
Where will you sleep, my Love?
I'll sleep in my clothes,
and the morning will come again.
A little smelly, I'll go downtown.
Because that is where the soup kitchen is,
where there is food in trashcans,
where the action is.
What will you do tomorrow?
Treating me like a toy,
you disagree, saying,
"You disrespect me."
But the truth is only that
I am the most interesting
of your victims.
Still here.
Still fighting.
How rare.
Your Love is Abuse.
Though you don't see it.
Taught to you by older male Abusers.
You think I'm wrong, I know.
But as a male abuser,
I know what to look for.
You are it.
I do not play you.
though I would have when I was younger.
Others may play you, I do not know.
You do play yourself.
This I know.
I don't know who taught you how,
but play you, you do.
This is not good.
And I cry for your games.
The choice is not mine.
It's yours
and you choose the worst
(in my opinion).
Blame everything but you,
I know that you will.
You are so fucked up!
But if you ever come around...
If you ever see straight...
If you ever want real Love...
I'll be here.
Just waiting.
The sun is setting,
I'm outside,
eating a sandwich
and drinking some beer.
Where are you, my Love?
When the sun sets
I'll walk in the woods.
Find my blanket.
Curl up in it and go to sleep.
Where will you sleep, my Love?
I'll sleep in my clothes,
and the morning will come again.
A little smelly, I'll go downtown.
Because that is where the soup kitchen is,
where there is food in trashcans,
where the action is.
What will you do tomorrow?
Treating me like a toy,
you disagree, saying,
"You disrespect me."
But the truth is only that
I am the most interesting
of your victims.
Still here.
Still fighting.
How rare.
Your Love is Abuse.
Though you don't see it.
Taught to you by older male Abusers.
You think I'm wrong, I know.
But as a male abuser,
I know what to look for.
You are it.
I do not play you.
though I would have when I was younger.
Others may play you, I do not know.
You do play yourself.
This I know.
I don't know who taught you how,
but play you, you do.
This is not good.
And I cry for your games.
The choice is not mine.
It's yours
and you choose the worst
(in my opinion).
Blame everything but you,
I know that you will.
You are so fucked up!
But if you ever come around...
If you ever see straight...
If you ever want real Love...
I'll be here.
Just waiting.
Poem: Filthy Black Widow
From the bloody wounds on my feet,
to the underwear I haven't changed
in twelve days; I'm filthy.
All the deodorant in the world
doesn't cover my stench...
and she pretends to love me.
No shower offered,
or laundry nigh,
no nothing offered,
to this homeless guy.
Though I fallowed her where,
she knows I'm so afraid of,
a place that I fear
and have had shanty times of,
I trusted her heart,
thought that she would protect me.
Though it turned out she cared less
and felt more "To Hell with me."
I'm always so stupid,
for trusting in love,
I think it will save us,
come down from above.
But always this demoness,
caring not for me.
Her only desire
is that She is She!
No compromise possible,
no shake of hands.
She must have it all,
and fuck those who stand.
Why must I love her?
This Bitch-Queen of "I"?
It must be my karma
from days I flew high.
When I was a prince
and commanded the slaves.
Well now I'm commanded
by this girl of young age.
I weep for my sorrow
and weep for my plight.
I weep for Black Widow,
who knows not her might.
I weep for her molesters,
who started her bad.
I weep for the love,
that I wish that I had.
to the underwear I haven't changed
in twelve days; I'm filthy.
All the deodorant in the world
doesn't cover my stench...
and she pretends to love me.
No shower offered,
or laundry nigh,
no nothing offered,
to this homeless guy.
Though I fallowed her where,
she knows I'm so afraid of,
a place that I fear
and have had shanty times of,
I trusted her heart,
thought that she would protect me.
Though it turned out she cared less
and felt more "To Hell with me."
I'm always so stupid,
for trusting in love,
I think it will save us,
come down from above.
But always this demoness,
caring not for me.
Her only desire
is that She is She!
No compromise possible,
no shake of hands.
She must have it all,
and fuck those who stand.
Why must I love her?
This Bitch-Queen of "I"?
It must be my karma
from days I flew high.
When I was a prince
and commanded the slaves.
Well now I'm commanded
by this girl of young age.
I weep for my sorrow
and weep for my plight.
I weep for Black Widow,
who knows not her might.
I weep for her molesters,
who started her bad.
I weep for the love,
that I wish that I had.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Poem: Passing Time (#4?)
Each day a year.
Dark mist-morning cold no sun:
Late Winter.
The Walk and Long Bus
across town, across years.
More walking as the sun starts
coming on strong.
The Coffee finally, amazingly good,
(though slightly less so every day)
maybe some writings.
Winter has passed
and the spring is here.
Walking I find popcorn in a bag
on the street: Brunch.
By afternoon it's scorching hot
and I've spent an hour in-line
at St. Anthony's Soup Kitchen.
More walking and I get
my first drink of the day
at a gas station.
It's almost Fall already
and the drink goes with Lunch nicely.
Wanting more, but not having money,
or energy,
I start my walk back towards the beach
where I hide my sleeping bag
and other clothes.
Making it to camp
the sun has finally set
and it is Winter again.
Warm in my sleeping bag,
under the trees,
smell and feel of Ocean on my face,
total darkness surrounding.
I feel very old,
like Shin-Lo, "The Mountain."
So named for his only movements
in ten years of constant meditation
were the paths carved in his cheeks
by the passage of his tears.
I pray to Shin-Lo
that my fate will be better.
Dark mist-morning cold no sun:
Late Winter.
The Walk and Long Bus
across town, across years.
More walking as the sun starts
coming on strong.
The Coffee finally, amazingly good,
(though slightly less so every day)
maybe some writings.
Winter has passed
and the spring is here.
Walking I find popcorn in a bag
on the street: Brunch.
By afternoon it's scorching hot
and I've spent an hour in-line
at St. Anthony's Soup Kitchen.
More walking and I get
my first drink of the day
at a gas station.
It's almost Fall already
and the drink goes with Lunch nicely.
Wanting more, but not having money,
or energy,
I start my walk back towards the beach
where I hide my sleeping bag
and other clothes.
Making it to camp
the sun has finally set
and it is Winter again.
Warm in my sleeping bag,
under the trees,
smell and feel of Ocean on my face,
total darkness surrounding.
I feel very old,
like Shin-Lo, "The Mountain."
So named for his only movements
in ten years of constant meditation
were the paths carved in his cheeks
by the passage of his tears.
I pray to Shin-Lo
that my fate will be better.
Poem: Bum Weekend
Some days you just want to stay home.
Stay in bed. Order in.
Watch movies on TV and just lazy around
in pajamas.
Then you wake up more
and remember you'd better
roll up your sleeping bag
before some park rangers come
and find you.
Damn: Still homeless.
It's easy to forget
in those small moments
between waking and sleep.
Easy to feel OK for a moment.
I'll be as lazy as possible today,
but it's not the same.
I'll have to go to Safeway
to use the restroom
and get some food.
I'll have to go to the corner store
for smokes.
It's cold outside and windy,
but I'll just sit here anyway.
Too fucking tired and beat up
to make much else happen.
This is my life.
Every day.
I wish something else,
I do what I have to.
Stay in bed. Order in.
Watch movies on TV and just lazy around
in pajamas.
Then you wake up more
and remember you'd better
roll up your sleeping bag
before some park rangers come
and find you.
Damn: Still homeless.
It's easy to forget
in those small moments
between waking and sleep.
Easy to feel OK for a moment.
I'll be as lazy as possible today,
but it's not the same.
I'll have to go to Safeway
to use the restroom
and get some food.
I'll have to go to the corner store
for smokes.
It's cold outside and windy,
but I'll just sit here anyway.
Too fucking tired and beat up
to make much else happen.
This is my life.
Every day.
I wish something else,
I do what I have to.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Poem: Bumrest
Is there ever enough rest
for a bum on the streets?
There are no bums I know
who say they're well-rested.
From sprinklers to cops
to cold or the shakes;
there's always something
to keep a bum moving.
The promise of food,
or money, drugs,
or just clean socks.
Maybe a need to pee.
Always on the move.
A nap in the park,
a drunken knockout before dawn,
who knows what day it is,
when the world is not marked
by sleeping and waking,
night and day,
job and freedom.
Just hours, just time,
ticking away forever.
Some bums stay awake to fight the time,
others choose downers to slow it to a still.
Some choose nothing but prayer and meditation;
they're usually the Nuttiest.
But time must pass regardless,
and none of us get enough rest.
The mind gets fuzzy after a couple of days
without sleep.
Even when you're sober as a skunk.
Too fuzzy to make plans sometimes,
to make sentences.
A slight, blurry, auric-fuzz
on the edge of your vision,
surrounding everything you see,
slowing reaction time.
What? Huh? Muscles ache.
The jaw clenches.
Speed or crack is almost tempting,
just to change the exhaustion.
But, no.
Got to just keep walking.
Been here writing too long.
Need to go to the bathroom.
Just keep going until sundown.
Then sleep.
Then another day.
for a bum on the streets?
There are no bums I know
who say they're well-rested.
From sprinklers to cops
to cold or the shakes;
there's always something
to keep a bum moving.
The promise of food,
or money, drugs,
or just clean socks.
Maybe a need to pee.
Always on the move.
A nap in the park,
a drunken knockout before dawn,
who knows what day it is,
when the world is not marked
by sleeping and waking,
night and day,
job and freedom.
Just hours, just time,
ticking away forever.
Some bums stay awake to fight the time,
others choose downers to slow it to a still.
Some choose nothing but prayer and meditation;
they're usually the Nuttiest.
But time must pass regardless,
and none of us get enough rest.
The mind gets fuzzy after a couple of days
without sleep.
Even when you're sober as a skunk.
Too fuzzy to make plans sometimes,
to make sentences.
A slight, blurry, auric-fuzz
on the edge of your vision,
surrounding everything you see,
slowing reaction time.
What? Huh? Muscles ache.
The jaw clenches.
Speed or crack is almost tempting,
just to change the exhaustion.
But, no.
Got to just keep walking.
Been here writing too long.
Need to go to the bathroom.
Just keep going until sundown.
Then sleep.
Then another day.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Story: The Finger
Yesterday I was feeling lower than low. Homeless, penniless, stinking, sticky, alone, with a sharp pain in my stomach from hunger. Walking down a street where an endless stream of cars drove towards me and away. I felt the unholy weight of my uselessness on this planet. Like a ghost, nothing I did really mattered to anyone. I was powerless and impotant as the endless river of cars full of real people passed me by. People who did matter. People who had power to change things and make a difference in this world. Oh, how I hated and envied them. Was there really nothing I could do? Nothing at all that would matter to these people? If I killed myself they wouldn't even notice. My writings are read primarily by my mother, to use as fodder for insulting me and torturing me. What could I possibly do that would make the slightest shred of difference to these people, while at the same time expressing my deepest feelings about my situation and their society?
Without really thinking about it I raised my hand toward the on-coming cars and extended my middle finger towards them. The cars were passing quickly, but the response was immediate: Eyes widened in surprise, children pointing with laughter, looks of confusion, looks of anger. With this one simple gesture I had made a connection with the Others, I had communicated my feelings, and i had made a difference, however small, in their lives.
A small drop of warmth filled me. Almost like joy. Raising my finger higher and prouder I walked leasurly toward the beach. I must have flipped off a thousand people yesterday. And it felt great!
Later on I started singing repititions of the word "Fuck," in Operatic form, as loud as possible - much to the consternation of the tourists nearby. Looks of confusion and illness; clearly this did not have the same effect as The Finger, nor the same cathartic warmth for me.
A gesture is simple and fun and can't really be misunderstood, while a man screaming "fuck" is just sad.
Long live The Middle Finger! When the world's giving it to you, give it right back! You'll thank me for it.
Without really thinking about it I raised my hand toward the on-coming cars and extended my middle finger towards them. The cars were passing quickly, but the response was immediate: Eyes widened in surprise, children pointing with laughter, looks of confusion, looks of anger. With this one simple gesture I had made a connection with the Others, I had communicated my feelings, and i had made a difference, however small, in their lives.
A small drop of warmth filled me. Almost like joy. Raising my finger higher and prouder I walked leasurly toward the beach. I must have flipped off a thousand people yesterday. And it felt great!
Later on I started singing repititions of the word "Fuck," in Operatic form, as loud as possible - much to the consternation of the tourists nearby. Looks of confusion and illness; clearly this did not have the same effect as The Finger, nor the same cathartic warmth for me.
A gesture is simple and fun and can't really be misunderstood, while a man screaming "fuck" is just sad.
Long live The Middle Finger! When the world's giving it to you, give it right back! You'll thank me for it.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
List: MY Bum/Lunatic/Drug Addict Movies!
[My Movie Picks for Good Movies about the Bum/Lunatic/Addict Life! Not in Order.]
1) Down and Out in Beverly Hills (Oh yessss!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090966/
2) Trading Places
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086465/
3) Basketball Diaries (Good book, too. Based on a true story.)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112461/
4) Drugstore Cowboy
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097240/
5) Barfly
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0092618/
6) The Big Lubowski (Of Course)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118715/
7) Naked Lunch
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102511/
8) Oliver Twist (Still valid today on the streets...)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0040662/
9) Le Miserable (Ditto)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0119683/
10) Easy Rider (OF COURSE)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0064276/
11) The Fisher King (Quite Accurate Portrayal by Williams...)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0101889/
12) One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (The Bible)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0073486/
13) Basquiat (Not all Bums are so Lucky, most go to jail for vandalism)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0115632/
14) I Shot Andy Warhol (Valerie knows what it's like)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116594/
15) Crazy People (Okay, it's fun)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099316/
16) The Lost Weekend (Sometimes it happens...)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0037884/
17) Wise Blood (Not a bum, but a searcher all the same)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0080140/
18) The Dream Team (More crazy fun!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097235/
19) The Devil's Rejects (Oh yeah)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0395584/
20) Strange Brew (They are Bums, right?)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086373/
21) Shakes the Clown (Kinda a bum, at least an Alchi. Get it, "Shakes?")
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102898/
22) Sante Sangre (My family life in metaphor)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0098253/
23) Holy Mountain (My spiritual path in metaphor)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071615/
24) Wall-E (The picture of Fat, Lazy, society is very accurate)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0910970/
25) Life Stinks (I wish!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102303/
26) Sid and Nancy (Too glamoris, needs more vomit, still pretty good)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091954/
27) Down By Law (Fuck, yeah!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090967/
28) Man Facing Southeast (It's True!)
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm451252992/tt0091214
29) State Property 2 (Realistic-ish)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0403537/
Honorable Mention
1) Traffic (Drugs, yo, for real)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0181865/
2) Clerks (boredom culture)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109445/
3) Party Monster (yes, this happens)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0320244/
4) Bad Santa (not all criminals are all bad, truly)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0307987/
5) Breakfast Club (That slacker guy you know is going to be a Bum)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088847/
6) 12 Monkeys (I feel it)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0114746/
7) Repo Man (Lots of poor people)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087995/
8) Real Genius (that one guy who lives on campus at 40 is a great bum idol)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089886/
9) Broken Flowers (that's life, really)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0412019/
10) Dumb and Dumber (they're bums, come on)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109686/
11) American Splendor (He's very poor, and realistic)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0305206/
12) The Craft (Hokey, but hey, it happens)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0115963/
Dishonorable Mention
1) Annie (You Wish!)
1) Down and Out in Beverly Hills (Oh yessss!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090966/
2) Trading Places
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086465/
3) Basketball Diaries (Good book, too. Based on a true story.)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112461/
4) Drugstore Cowboy
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097240/
5) Barfly
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0092618/
6) The Big Lubowski (Of Course)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118715/
7) Naked Lunch
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102511/
8) Oliver Twist (Still valid today on the streets...)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0040662/
9) Le Miserable (Ditto)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0119683/
10) Easy Rider (OF COURSE)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0064276/
11) The Fisher King (Quite Accurate Portrayal by Williams...)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0101889/
12) One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (The Bible)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0073486/
13) Basquiat (Not all Bums are so Lucky, most go to jail for vandalism)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0115632/
14) I Shot Andy Warhol (Valerie knows what it's like)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116594/
15) Crazy People (Okay, it's fun)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099316/
16) The Lost Weekend (Sometimes it happens...)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0037884/
17) Wise Blood (Not a bum, but a searcher all the same)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0080140/
18) The Dream Team (More crazy fun!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097235/
19) The Devil's Rejects (Oh yeah)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0395584/
20) Strange Brew (They are Bums, right?)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086373/
21) Shakes the Clown (Kinda a bum, at least an Alchi. Get it, "Shakes?")
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102898/
22) Sante Sangre (My family life in metaphor)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0098253/
23) Holy Mountain (My spiritual path in metaphor)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071615/
24) Wall-E (The picture of Fat, Lazy, society is very accurate)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0910970/
25) Life Stinks (I wish!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102303/
26) Sid and Nancy (Too glamoris, needs more vomit, still pretty good)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091954/
27) Down By Law (Fuck, yeah!)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090967/
28) Man Facing Southeast (It's True!)
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm451252992/tt0091214
29) State Property 2 (Realistic-ish)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0403537/
Honorable Mention
1) Traffic (Drugs, yo, for real)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0181865/
2) Clerks (boredom culture)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109445/
3) Party Monster (yes, this happens)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0320244/
4) Bad Santa (not all criminals are all bad, truly)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0307987/
5) Breakfast Club (That slacker guy you know is going to be a Bum)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088847/
6) 12 Monkeys (I feel it)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0114746/
7) Repo Man (Lots of poor people)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087995/
8) Real Genius (that one guy who lives on campus at 40 is a great bum idol)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089886/
9) Broken Flowers (that's life, really)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0412019/
10) Dumb and Dumber (they're bums, come on)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109686/
11) American Splendor (He's very poor, and realistic)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0305206/
12) The Craft (Hokey, but hey, it happens)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0115963/
Dishonorable Mention
1) Annie (You Wish!)
Poem: Go Home
I prayed to God saying
"I don't like where I'm living."
The next morning awoken
by the Police.
"But where am I supposed to go?"
I asked.
"home," the Cop said softly,
not unkindly,
"go home."
That's when the tears started.
It's so easy for someone,
who comes from a home,
to say "go home"
-I've heard it before
many times.
But how do I tell them
I don't have a home?
Never had a home.
Everyone must come
from somewhere.
But that doesn't mean they
have a home.
I havn't had a real home
since I was thirteen years old.
My parents sent me away
from there.
First to the Desert,
then to the Other Side of the Country.
There was no warning.
They said "two weeks of fun."
But they meant
Boarding School,
Punishment for Imagined Crimes,
Confinement,
Loss of all friends and social ties
I'd been building
for thirteen years.
Almost twenty years later:
My Father,
unable to put me in Prison,
still has a restraining order against me.
No home there.
My Mother lives with a man
like my Father.
She cares for him instead of me.
He's my replacement;
since she's had him
I stopped mattering to her.
Not my health,
not my schooling,
not my life.
Before she remarried
she put our house into
legal trust.
She said
"Jane, this house will always be yours.
I want you to know that.
My new marriage changes nothing."
Her new husband battered me
at their wedding
and because she didn't care,
no one else did.
One month after marriage
she sold our house.
No home there.
I sometimes hate
people who have homes,
or those who come from nice ones.
Though that's not fair of me.
They can't help the way they are
any more than I can.
Still...
I wish I had a
Permenant Place
that I could always go.
Somewhere safe
and warm.
With food, too,
and a bathtub.
Somewhere I'd always
be Welcome
and no one would
call me bad names
or hit me.
I probably always will wish this.
And it's a little too late,
for that wish,
to come true.
"I don't like where I'm living."
The next morning awoken
by the Police.
"But where am I supposed to go?"
I asked.
"home," the Cop said softly,
not unkindly,
"go home."
That's when the tears started.
It's so easy for someone,
who comes from a home,
to say "go home"
-I've heard it before
many times.
But how do I tell them
I don't have a home?
Never had a home.
Everyone must come
from somewhere.
But that doesn't mean they
have a home.
I havn't had a real home
since I was thirteen years old.
My parents sent me away
from there.
First to the Desert,
then to the Other Side of the Country.
There was no warning.
They said "two weeks of fun."
But they meant
Boarding School,
Punishment for Imagined Crimes,
Confinement,
Loss of all friends and social ties
I'd been building
for thirteen years.
Almost twenty years later:
My Father,
unable to put me in Prison,
still has a restraining order against me.
No home there.
My Mother lives with a man
like my Father.
She cares for him instead of me.
He's my replacement;
since she's had him
I stopped mattering to her.
Not my health,
not my schooling,
not my life.
Before she remarried
she put our house into
legal trust.
She said
"Jane, this house will always be yours.
I want you to know that.
My new marriage changes nothing."
Her new husband battered me
at their wedding
and because she didn't care,
no one else did.
One month after marriage
she sold our house.
No home there.
I sometimes hate
people who have homes,
or those who come from nice ones.
Though that's not fair of me.
They can't help the way they are
any more than I can.
Still...
I wish I had a
Permenant Place
that I could always go.
Somewhere safe
and warm.
With food, too,
and a bathtub.
Somewhere I'd always
be Welcome
and no one would
call me bad names
or hit me.
I probably always will wish this.
And it's a little too late,
for that wish,
to come true.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Thoughts: Entertainment
What do I miss most from the days when I wasn't a bum? Today it's Entertainment. The wealthy first-world Sheeple of planet Earth have lives filled with the most intricate orchestrated entertainments imaginable. From TV to movies to music to video games to sports to computers to dildos; the list goes on and on forever.
While the bums like me are expelled from this Gardebn of Eden-tainment. Confined to radios, books, newspapers, and simply watching everyone else.
The Sheeple flit from one mode of sensory absorbtion to another like butterflies; using thier brains like TV remote controls to change the channel whenever they want. God I miss it. While we, the poor, musr endure whatever is placed before us. We have little choice about what sensory inputs we can observe. Oh sure, we can try our hardest to be surrounded by enjoyable things (and you'd better beleive I do), but in the end it's simply too exhausting when your money needs to be spent on food, not movies.
This is why Alcoholism and drug addiction is so rampant amoungst the poor; they have no other modes of entertainment and what's worse, they are surrounded by other people who do have access to The Fun. The poor are an island stuck in the middle of the wealthy. Forced to watch the rich at play, see comercials for items they will never be able to afford, lust after sexual partners who would never in a million years be with them.
To be poor, in a rich world, is the definition of "Frustration."
While the bums like me are expelled from this Gardebn of Eden-tainment. Confined to radios, books, newspapers, and simply watching everyone else.
The Sheeple flit from one mode of sensory absorbtion to another like butterflies; using thier brains like TV remote controls to change the channel whenever they want. God I miss it. While we, the poor, musr endure whatever is placed before us. We have little choice about what sensory inputs we can observe. Oh sure, we can try our hardest to be surrounded by enjoyable things (and you'd better beleive I do), but in the end it's simply too exhausting when your money needs to be spent on food, not movies.
This is why Alcoholism and drug addiction is so rampant amoungst the poor; they have no other modes of entertainment and what's worse, they are surrounded by other people who do have access to The Fun. The poor are an island stuck in the middle of the wealthy. Forced to watch the rich at play, see comercials for items they will never be able to afford, lust after sexual partners who would never in a million years be with them.
To be poor, in a rich world, is the definition of "Frustration."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Poem: No Room
There used to be places
that were comfortable and safe.
Gone there to rest
after working or playing hard.
Some at friends houses,
some at my own,
somewhere I lost them,
now I'm nowhere at all.
No comfortable space
for nigh on ten years.
No place to relax,
no shoulder for tears.
It's time to get going,
the check-out's at noon.
I just keep on walking,
keep missing my room.
that were comfortable and safe.
Gone there to rest
after working or playing hard.
Some at friends houses,
some at my own,
somewhere I lost them,
now I'm nowhere at all.
No comfortable space
for nigh on ten years.
No place to relax,
no shoulder for tears.
It's time to get going,
the check-out's at noon.
I just keep on walking,
keep missing my room.
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