I hear you. We live with in San Francisco where we met Beaner after he scared the shit out of us chasing a dog walker at night. Don't hassle him we're told. We know him, neighbors say. He lives here. Our neighborhood Saint Josie, she works with the city's Beaners every day face to face down in the gutter. She tried to find full care housing for Beaner ... of which there is never enough in a city full of billionaires. We live in a country where the billionaires' lap dog should wear a MASA hat. MAKE AMERICA SICK AGAIN.
And it’s not just the potential needles or the opiates but the trauma, the pain, the rage. We are a communal species and toxicity is often in these ‘things.’
When I’ve worked with hoarders, their stuff that looks like trash to most are containers for all the trauma they can no longer hold themselves.
That was a good poem. Truth and metaphors. We all have the loose wheel. But to be houseless is a burden many can’t bear. Some give up completely. Self medicating their pain. Until one day it suicide. Let’s walk in the avenue. Let’s sleep half in the street. Let’s just leave in an overdose. It’s a sad world. Give a dollar to a sober person. Ask them if they want some food as you walk into the store. Stop at the tent camp and ask if they are okay.
Years ago I read an essay by Tess Gallagher in which she addressed the "lyric narrative" as the (or at least "a") defining aspect of recent poetry. I'd say this is a splendid example--and I love your use of ironic juxtaposition with that "metaphor." Yes, the academic phrase here seems irksome, klutzy.
Oh my goodness, this is a sad poem. Sad and beautiful and true.
Thanks for everything you said about writing, which is also true and is everything else you said about it, and which is comforting when it comes from a writer like you.
I'm so excited about the sequel-loved the first (think I read it just a couple of years ago)! WooHoo! Breaks are good-and aren't we the lucky ones Sherman?! Thanks for chatting with us about what you're feeling during the break. "Our blessings and sins just spin and spin." This. Thank you.
The metaphor and reality of the homeless man really hits home and resonates emotionally.Consolidating life experiences, especially the trauma and pain that become the scares that continually effect our perceptions and inform feelings actions and behaviors, as well as our ability to contain them makes this read very in depth. Thank you
Yesterday when I met a friend to loan him $60 so that he could have his roommate evicted, I saw an overturned shopping cart, still loaded with most of the things, including a coffee table. The person was not there. My friend did not recognize me at first, as I was not alone, although our cars are very similar. My friend does not have radar for takers, and this is not the first time he's been taken. But I gave him the cash (he has helped me out before) and looked up where to take it to get the paperwork done. So much pain. So much loss.
I hear you. We live with in San Francisco where we met Beaner after he scared the shit out of us chasing a dog walker at night. Don't hassle him we're told. We know him, neighbors say. He lives here. Our neighborhood Saint Josie, she works with the city's Beaners every day face to face down in the gutter. She tried to find full care housing for Beaner ... of which there is never enough in a city full of billionaires. We live in a country where the billionaires' lap dog should wear a MASA hat. MAKE AMERICA SICK AGAIN.
His world...
The broken wheel.
The last straw.
The howl.
Will it ever get better?
Y/our world...
Fear overriding compassion
Can we/we can
Do better.
I hear your sadness for him
For your fearful self
For ourselves
Our world has a broken wheel.
🙏 for healing
For him
For us.
Love your writings.
Thank you so much. As always your poems bring us right to the heart of our nitty gritty shared lives.
We are all broken. living in a broken world and so our prayers are broken too. Humbly pray nonetheless to lighten our and their Bags of Holding.
“I’m afraid of what
dangerous things he might
have collected.”
And it’s not just the potential needles or the opiates but the trauma, the pain, the rage. We are a communal species and toxicity is often in these ‘things.’
When I’ve worked with hoarders, their stuff that looks like trash to most are containers for all the trauma they can no longer hold themselves.
Excellent poem!
That was a good poem. Truth and metaphors. We all have the loose wheel. But to be houseless is a burden many can’t bear. Some give up completely. Self medicating their pain. Until one day it suicide. Let’s walk in the avenue. Let’s sleep half in the street. Let’s just leave in an overdose. It’s a sad world. Give a dollar to a sober person. Ask them if they want some food as you walk into the store. Stop at the tent camp and ask if they are okay.
Years ago I read an essay by Tess Gallagher in which she addressed the "lyric narrative" as the (or at least "a") defining aspect of recent poetry. I'd say this is a splendid example--and I love your use of ironic juxtaposition with that "metaphor." Yes, the academic phrase here seems irksome, klutzy.
Amazing! Such beauty in your touching observations and expressions.
Dang.....I see this sort of thing every time I drive through my town. Every one of your words hit me.......Thank you for sharing this poem with us.
Oh my goodness, this is a sad poem. Sad and beautiful and true.
Thanks for everything you said about writing, which is also true and is everything else you said about it, and which is comforting when it comes from a writer like you.
A shopping cart without groceries
Filled with discarded items, trash to another
His entire life, left over, gathered from trash cans and gutters
Normal people cannot understand or fathom why anything in the cart matters to anyone
But the man is not an anyone he is a anything
Disconnected from the traffic ants passing by
His collection is sacred to him
His alter, his higher power, his purpose
Collect, store, and roll on
He walks many miles a day
His shoes wrapped in duct tape
His heart battered by the sun and rain
His alter is cascading back into the sidewalk from which it came
Everyone in their cars sees he needs help
No one gets out of their cars
No one listens to the universe, the Gods
When they tell them to help
No one knows how to repack his alter
I'm so excited about the sequel-loved the first (think I read it just a couple of years ago)! WooHoo! Breaks are good-and aren't we the lucky ones Sherman?! Thanks for chatting with us about what you're feeling during the break. "Our blessings and sins just spin and spin." This. Thank you.
The metaphor and reality of the homeless man really hits home and resonates emotionally.Consolidating life experiences, especially the trauma and pain that become the scares that continually effect our perceptions and inform feelings actions and behaviors, as well as our ability to contain them makes this read very in depth. Thank you
This is what poets do. We see people. Thank you for this 🙏🏼
Yesterday when I met a friend to loan him $60 so that he could have his roommate evicted, I saw an overturned shopping cart, still loaded with most of the things, including a coffee table. The person was not there. My friend did not recognize me at first, as I was not alone, although our cars are very similar. My friend does not have radar for takers, and this is not the first time he's been taken. But I gave him the cash (he has helped me out before) and looked up where to take it to get the paperwork done. So much pain. So much loss.
Oh, the speaker’s painful guilt and remorse is brutal and so true in so many situations.
This was one of your best, brother. Dante's terza rima included. Or as Dorothy Parker once said:
"What fresh hell is this?" The things they pushed. The things they spilled. The things they carried.