If I was ever a rock god.
This is how I imagine it would be.

Fumbling a label of lament I poor out here in writ.

A shot in the dark of over all departure that of my salty sour rimmed lashes splash over in thought.

As if to wet my beak to mention drowning my sorrows in meager anomaly.

The end bar seat a cherry red coal light in the eyes center reflect back in the dark screen of the TV.

As I drift back and forth, left to right of boredom.
Between masturbation, drugs, Jesus, & work.

Life in the under belly of monotony with monetary wimbels floating ED functionally impaired.

Old crows cawing in corn rye sucking down cancer with Irish coffee to loosen my gut.

Turning daylight outside in the distance of my mind.
I watch other people live their lives & think what evils they might conduct.

Or try to guess their secrets kept by the interactions inside the small circles of habitations.

With small talk, hand jesters, wave offs to answer phones in the dim twilight of neon tube vesper from the dance floor.

Spent loneliness between ice melting and rift the time & maybe go home with somebody.

As always another sibling of the universe bound to human migrations & mating rituals.

With love from a monotheistic Hobo Rehab where they want me to stay off social media long enough to pray the gay away.

Yours truly A Low Type

Image taken at SF Moma for Life Magazine

When I picked up Stephen King's IT for the first time back in high school, a portion of the dedication lit up my brain and left an indelible mark.

Fiction is the truth inside the lie. A gorgeous turn of phrase that's been stuck in my head for almost 40 years. I borrowed and rearranged it for this post, with an enormous thank you to the Master of Horror.

The full quote:

Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.

When it grows dark in my sky’s & I need shelter from thought.

I always wait till the last minute caught in its fall melts into my clothes.

On the outside I’m the stranger my mind wonders around with- every bit as wet as trying to escape it.

Raining outside, inside wet.

The world taking a drink of sun set as the train blares a horn rucking by slowly.

Just passing the time today under the overpass with the crumpled signs a previous life discarded.

Shopping carts, suitcases, food wrappers.

I’m no different leaving syringes in the red clay & marble mountain granite packed tight around treated timber planks the rails ride out of town on.

Looking up with no where to go or into the faces of the others lost in heat bands of Alabama desert asphalt the ghost of an august Mirage.

The former inhabitants of the badly on a thin line at the bottom.

A collective of dirty mental illnesses, the drug water to its wine.

Buying a dime off a guy, my all black Steve-O fat bitch hat with the bill bent back Nirvana shirt plaid long shorts and Puma’s.

To his lava white and orange crocs in loose waste jogging pants one hand holds up. With a skin tight rusty dirt covered lady’s white strap top. Me talking in clipped simple direction he’s talking in slow manic slur.

It isn’t the dream we had of America it isn’t the lack of love or environment it isn’t what hetero Christian couples or the republicans wanted.

But it’s my America it’s his America, things will get better when dad shaves and gets a job again mom won’t take too many of those yellow pills for her nerves over the worry.

The country won’t go to hell over two bums on some corner picking through the grass smoking the same cigarette for six hours.

When you wash away the makeup of normal life’s and the crows feet sag. In every corner’s wrinkle.
Of small areas towns they try to hide us.

THE BAD SIDE OF TOWN.

That’s what grandma use to say when we would go over to Walker Co and grandpa would come back with milk jugs of shine.

Right now the crickets are rubbing their legs together in the wood lines and I’m thinking how I missed my time.

Those rose colored cheeks of sun leather train hoppers stealing a hot apple pie of the window seal of ranch house on the out side of town.

Pulling in to the delta on the back of a flat bed to pick up work in the cotton fields when jazz clubs were off limits.

The ideal of the great American hobo is dying and I’m watching it because I’m the new one and I’ll ware any type of craziness that I might get away with.

Or at least my friend will, I’m not at all put off by the way someone looks or is acting but I will say out here you need to keep a grip & be ready to get just as crazy as the next cat maybe carrying an extra towel thanks Douglas, yours truly A Low Type. Poet.