Editor's Note: In Manchester, I met an amazing artist. He was homeless, selling his poetry page by page. He sold me two for the price of one and I promised to publish them via my humble e-zine. Here they are. Let's hope we hear more from him!
Me Myself and I
Sat on the edge Society
wondering why I'm not a priority
what's come of my life, come over me
my life's in tatters can't you see
beggin at the bank every day
get a job get a life people say
i get not benefits just what people give
to buy food and drink to help me live
i live on the street a doorway's my bed
people think I'm thick in the head
it's just Me Myself and I
nobody wants me do you know why
don't I deserve to live with a smile
to make my life worth the while...
on the street I have no home
in a doorway all alone
at night it gets so very cold
no one for warmth to cuddle or hold
day after day it's always the same
people rushin past in the fast lane
somewhere to go something to do
oh why can't I have a life like you
instead I'm sat here on my pitch
waitin and prayin to get that hitch
i have my regulars that stop with a smile
that makes gettin cold worth the while
sat out here is like Ground Hog Day
so until I get my break it's just
--J. L. Smith
Thursday, June 15, 2017
she penciled animals with her left hand:
dark pigs and dogs, but “Horses are too hard,”
she said. Self-conscious, with a diamond band,
a tight red dress, a round face acne-scarred,
she had bad teeth because she only brushed
the fronts. She kissed me. I smelled cigarettes,
her Heraclitean fire. Such moods! Blue-hushed,
to black, to blacker yet . . . a thousand yets.
And yet, she said she loved me: “You’re a good
man, just a little rough around the edges.”
I pledged that I’d live wilder if I could.
And then the moon above the cedar hedges . . .
so white it blinded me till pale daylight.
I dreamed of my dead mother late last night.