Drinking Amongst the Homeless

Evaluation, analysis, streams of consciousness

Tattered. Unblemished, discriminated by characteristics however not given credit to what ever they are thinking.
We throw bottles at mansions, fleeing in the dark, we are crusading vigilantes. Bored, angry you can even presume. The night gives us make-up we can never give our life, hiding the mask of our shame.
Where has the blame gone when the intoxication elevates into domination? Behavioral accommodation represented by days that fade like the sun when the grey goes away.
Funny thing is you know the grey comes; of course with age.
Envious dynamics of a life called tragic we harrass pedestrians with middle finger greetings.
A post card of expletives that take you on a trip to counseling.
Abuse of power?
Our tongues sour to the taste of champagne we drink on the opulent front lawn.
Slowing the ever so slow pace, its probably the best time ever that doesn't include awkward bonfires under the viaduct.
Its probably the best time ever that doesn't bring us back to the worst time ever.
Our lives.


Imagine the world floating looking for purpose.
Passing bigger, better planets while also passing smaller less significant ones.
Does Earth feel gracious for what is? Which equals humbleness; or does it evoke more pondering?
More sailing on the inner ocean of our being surrounded by hurricanes,
Stirring the drink that overflows our leevees.
Naming them whatever because whoever gives name knows not the suffering or rage when we beg for a nickel.
So what if my booze is gifted upon a false statement.
Shall we drink into the confessional booth?
Then share a laugh as we bear false statements, searching for salvation while condemning our validation into public graces.
Enough stares teach us that judgment is first nature, like a leave to blow with the wind.

In our finest hour, we litter the bar turning it into a minor party. That is an understatement considering we are a minority under the minority.
We catch eyes like jabs to the cornia, we grasp disconcerting facial gestures as if we are naked and perfoming sexual acts.
W****s seem more accepted, we are looked down upon, further than the men who parades inside brothels.
We need a drink or two, or three, or five whatever gratifys the mood.
Even the bartender succumbs to ominous perceptions.
The crowd seems uneasy, complimented by our unsettled lifestyle.
We can settle this after a drink, if only more though as rational as that maybe bar stools would not fly hitting that woman,
Maybe that CEO would not have his maid sweep up glass of broken Moscato bottles.
Maybe we would head back to school instead of under the viaduct.
Maybe we would not act so vigorous when we are provoked by people who aren't as comprehending.
Involuntarily drowing in their shallow pool,
I recommend a drink to help fill it up, hopefully that depth helps you float above your superiority.
Until then, I'll continue to drown you in your own filth.
Who hear knows how it feels to be pissed on?

Infected. The city is infected by zombies.  At least being homeless is better than being mindless.
Consider this a memoir, a documented tale of refugees searching for homes.
A home that brings us back to our America.
Our America!
Not the republic that disgraces Washington or Lincoln! The America that gives testament to years of leading in a uniform of unity!
An America that is not segregated socially by class, ideas, philosophy, or whatever bullshit gets thrown into that shaker with your rich; not wealthy over priced drink!
An America that is close.
Now, who here wants to go to jail?
No one does.
Who here wants to be homeless?
No one does.
Who here wants love?
Every one does.