The following are poems I wrote while waiting for work at Starbucks in Commerce. I was inspired by a lot of sobering realities. Lincoln's Place Mat is about the sobering reality of this great country where the haves and have-nots battle for space.
San Julian and a Sleeping Bag
Wishing to hold hands in
the warm sleeping bag
Tucked in, spiteful, bitter winter.
He sleeps by a buzzing roar
by a buzzing road
by all the buzz of Downtown L.A.
If we could just walk away we would
Just walk away forever
And never utter whisper for a home.
Just running away until all
Thoughts cave in, thoughts depraved
Thoughts turn into shakes
Craving for smack
Digging for a snack
While the moneyed gawk and shoo
Away the penniless from their play zoo.
Another moment to find his
Palace in a sleeping bag.
Sleeping on San Julian Street.
Bobby Salmon
Bobby talked in a scattered drone
Bobby talked 'til the birds flew
Away from his desperate pleas
To have someone to speak to
Bobby washes his arms , poker-faced.
Bobby pushes his luck
With a screwdriver tucked
In his back pocket.
The police hate Bobby's talk
They beat the quiet out of him.
Kid's Gold
What if we took your keys
And watched your drunken
Stupor take you to Fifth Street?
Would you yell "Greetings!"
"My keys have escaped me!"???!!??
Kid's gold and start-ups and technology
Make you better than me?
4s and 5s and girls graded
By kid's gold for your souls-
Your naked body is a ten
With 100s of 100s of thousands at hand, at reach with click, safe penthouse.
Gentrified, petrified, chicken stand, stand in the
Rain of someone's smashed-up storm.
Kid's gold for a cell phone
Call to the money market army
"Better stop sleeping around the money!"
With mud-clotted boots
That Tent City is an eyesore
And this kid has loans to pay
While anything is at play.
The police will protect this kid's gold
While a person dies at 50 in the cold
Dumped by the devil's play police
And Bratton gets another hell
To nurture, to nurture, to protect
To clean-up with no morals but lots of money
To say, "Who cares? My daddy charges a few hundred an hour or more!"
Bratton always makes rich families feel safe
While the police boot-stamp crush
A young person's dream
To sleep peacefully in the streets.
Kid's gold for a coffee
And small talk and
A lustful tuck and brush-up to
A beauty, a ballerina
Of provincial youth. Being tucked in
A loft, cozy bed, cuz father said:
"Daddy's little girl will have doors opened"
To push out families already broken
For a pile of Kid's gold.
San Julian and a Sleeping Bag
Wishing to hold hands in
the warm sleeping bag
Tucked in, spiteful, bitter winter.
He sleeps by a buzzing roar
by a buzzing road
by all the buzz of Downtown L.A.
If we could just walk away we would
Just walk away forever
And never utter whisper for a home.
Just running away until all
Thoughts cave in, thoughts depraved
Thoughts turn into shakes
Craving for smack
Digging for a snack
While the moneyed gawk and shoo
Away the penniless from their play zoo.
Another moment to find his
Palace in a sleeping bag.
Sleeping on San Julian Street.
Bobby Salmon
Bobby talked in a scattered drone
Bobby talked 'til the birds flew
Away from his desperate pleas
To have someone to speak to
Bobby washes his arms , poker-faced.
Bobby pushes his luck
With a screwdriver tucked
In his back pocket.
The police hate Bobby's talk
They beat the quiet out of him.
Kid's Gold
What if we took your keys
And watched your drunken
Stupor take you to Fifth Street?
Would you yell "Greetings!"
"My keys have escaped me!"???!!??
Kid's gold and start-ups and technology
Make you better than me?
4s and 5s and girls graded
By kid's gold for your souls-
Your naked body is a ten
With 100s of 100s of thousands at hand, at reach with click, safe penthouse.
Gentrified, petrified, chicken stand, stand in the
Rain of someone's smashed-up storm.
Kid's gold for a cell phone
Call to the money market army
"Better stop sleeping around the money!"
With mud-clotted boots
That Tent City is an eyesore
And this kid has loans to pay
While anything is at play.
The police will protect this kid's gold
While a person dies at 50 in the cold
Dumped by the devil's play police
And Bratton gets another hell
To nurture, to nurture, to protect
To clean-up with no morals but lots of money
To say, "Who cares? My daddy charges a few hundred an hour or more!"
Bratton always makes rich families feel safe
While the police boot-stamp crush
A young person's dream
To sleep peacefully in the streets.
Kid's gold for a coffee
And small talk and
A lustful tuck and brush-up to
A beauty, a ballerina
Of provincial youth. Being tucked in
A loft, cozy bed, cuz father said:
"Daddy's little girl will have doors opened"
To push out families already broken
For a pile of Kid's gold.
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