Thursday, December 07, 2006

Midnite Monsters.

No sleep for two days onna counta the bus trip and then losing out on that bunk at Vinnies to that fucking wingnut - I had some time to kill.

First some fattening hobo quisine at Vinnies soup kitchen - puke onna plate goddammit I tell ya but some spade lazy eyed fuck that sat at the table across from me agreed that the fat-back in brown lard was just like momma used to make. Damn.

Off to the Central Library to toss off a few emails to the one I love and to the ones that gives a shit - but the computer nazi running the joint stood over me drumming her fingers and looking at the clock on the wall making sure and proper I was done in an hour.

Trudged up to Balboa Park when the sun went down knowing full well that I must now sleep under the stars tonight and after having dirt clog your snout for a year what an aromatic pleasure to smell all that good greenery again. The night crawling fags were out in legion this night and no cock went unsucked - under the glorious pale full moon, they did thier stylized ballet through the foilage hunting manflesh.

I sat there on that concrete bench sucking on a Lucky Strike so nasty for hours contemplating my delihma. Then it began to get cold and COLDER - unbearably cold. I treked downtown to hobo central - first stopping off at a 7-11 for coffee and a pack of doughnuts, sitting in the Gaslamp District watching the clean white happy kids get drunk and act like assholes. Assholes. Bored with that I headed to Vinnies and my kind of peeps and the tweekers were all aglow - and as any good tramp I stretched out onto the frozen hard concrete. That too - unbearable. My only course of action was to stay awake and walk it out - to wait and see if the next day would grant me shelter from this turmoil.

2 comments:

Jose said...

One day at a time.
What happened to your savings? Get a hotel room!

mkf said...

i've had this argument over and over again with my liberal friends--they maintain, in solemn politically-correct tones, that the homeless are victims of circumstance--you know, they're just like everybody else, they've temporarily fallen on bad times, and all they need is a little help to get 'em back on their feet so they can be "just like us" again.

and in response, i've always laughed at their naivete and told them they're full of shit--that if someone's homeless chances are at least even it's cause he pretty much wants to be, and all the pre-paid apartments in the world aren't gonna domesticate him.

thanks (or damn you--i'm not sure which) for proving my point--and at the very least, try not to o.d. or otherwise get yourself killed before the novel's finished and safely in the hands of a publisher, ok?