Blues in 2017 (1/2)

It was between late-May and early-June 2017, 
and this older Cuban man on General Relief 
would sip beer and smoke cigarettes while reading 
a newspaper outside the Echo Park library. 

I was homeless. I'd been homeless going on six months 
since saying fuck off to this predatory goblin of a man 
I'd lived with for almost a year in a convenient effort 
to escape being homeless. 

Since all I had was New York foodstamps and 
what I could panhandle (just until I found that 
pot of gold all my friends have told me about) 
that Cuban man's generosity was one of the very few 
things I could count on (besides a free lunch at 
the Church near Chinatown and sleeping under 
a tree at night.) 

I didn't have much to say. I was between suicides, 
struggling against despondency with less effort 
than I can ever remember.... 

And the Comey Investigation was going on, the country 
either thought or maintained the pretense that they thought 
President Trump would endure the same scrutiny & punishment 
dealt out to any other toxic, enabling, overpaid member-parasite 
of society. 

Alas, the overstuffed shithead served out his full term 
while Americans held bullet- and virus-ridden stomachs, 
and the Alt-Right complained of social diaper rash, 
and I clung to every small thing I could.... 

It's been five years, we have 
a new president, new year, new clothes. 
But I wonder if we aren't cursed 
to stay in the same tolerable/repulsive limbo. 
Until comic-strips and news articles hold 
equal importance and identical context, 
while we're abused like hapless children 
fathers are castrated by their sons 
and all mothers are locked in confessionals. 




**** 

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