Vastness belongs to the oceans
emptiness, the sky
chill, the bones
hunger, the stomach

and the bodies
stretched out or bent
face up or face down
belong to the streets

I met her on the beach in
Coralville.
Actually, it was just a long
strip of sand below the dam.
I was crashing with some
friends that had tents set up
back in the woods.
She wore a red one piece
swimsuit, big sunglasses, and
she drank warm Chardonnay in
the sensual summer sun.
We got drunk together and sang songs.
We walked hand in hand to the
liquor store as evening fell on us like
a warm blanket.
We got back and found an empty tent.
We drank ***** and ****** long into the night.
When morning came crashing in like
an intruder, with thick tongues, we
asked each other's names and laughed.
We spent many hours in the sun on
that strip of sand, swimming in
the river--dodging water moccasins.
When the mood struck us,
which was quite often, we went
back to the woods, and ******
like animals.
Sometimes, providence can be a friend.

Dean and I camped out behind
the shelter in Des Moines.
There was a nice patch of
woods north of the river.
We canned every day to
knock off the shakes.
Summer turned into
Fall and life raked
us in.
Dean moved in with
a friend, and I
went to this woman's
apartment.

We eventually got
married; it didn't last long.
That's been years ago.
I lost track of Dean for
a long time.
By chance,
we stumbled upon each other via the
internet.

******* life!
He has stage 3 colon cancer.
Reality can be
rancid sometimes.
he's still camping, ,
and he has a
woman that loves him.
What more could
you want?

Living in the USA is harder than dying if you are hungry and/or homeless and/or hopeless and/or if the color of your skin is something other than white.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

It was a night of manic dreams and
Ear shattering ringers from smoking cigars
Beyond counting.
I thought puffing one would bring me
Sunshine
It dumped me in a hole.
I never stay in one place long enough
To take care of what needs taking care of.
On the hustle from one cloud to the next.
Happiness flooding my veins
Till I can’t take any more of it
Then I spend days in a freezing cold bed
A house that isn’t mine
Stuck in a hole

Ralph McTell, a UK legend singer songwriter, has written a new verse for his famous Streets of London song. In these tough times I think it should go viral:

In shop doorways, under bridges
In all our towns and cities
You can glimpse the makeshift bedding
From the corner of your eye
Remember what you're seeing
Barely hides a human being
We're all in this together
Brother, sister, you and I

there were dandelions on the grass
dear girl, the smell of an Alcatraz flower is fresh on my linen
but sometimes I look back
and wonder if this city wears a too thick a coat
while it struts pantless over the sidewalks of
Macarther Park

there is liturgy mumbled, a woman waving her hands in the air–
Sunday school prayers being learned in Spanish
tri-folded pamphlets on the floor
and gum over the pavement blackened by the cooperative march
of immigrant workers speaking in all tongues and carrying
on their backs, the tower of babel while halted at a red light

heavy cargo trucks speeding down Alameda Street
wearing down the road and the patience of drivers
tents multiplied, and R.V's lining the streets  
the old buildings being torn down and neighboring apartments  getting face-lifts  
"beautification"
costs
more than headshots–
more than a rhinoplasty–
more than the real estate of DTLA–
when you see two kids come out of a tent with their school backpacks on
–you begin to grasp the price

Is this what Keats meant: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever "
even while destitute
the neon pink on their bags seemed like another gift of spring
and their perseverance the paragon of  a psalm of life

My derelict soul
rolls west, to under
the Benton Street Bridge.
The bridge is strange and
lonely and changed, with
Steve and Scott dead.
Both of them died on
the railroad tracks.
The ducks are still there,
under the Benton Street Bridge.
A feral calico cat stalks
them with death and
hunger in her eyes.
The river's up.
Fish jump where me
and Carl used to sit and
sing old Motown songs.
I'm in the nut ward for
the umpteenth time.
***** induced madness.
Pensive about life;
bereft of hope,
I wonder:
Am I just a lost duck?
Maybe I'll ask that
slender cat.

Angels with broken wings,
frostbitten dreams,
morphine nights,
and gangrene schemes.
She had that broken glass sadness.
The kind that gets worse with
every slammed door and every
lazy moon mad night.
The light in her eyes was dim,
like a candle in the fog, or like
a frog that dreams of flying, but
wakes up to the same old pond,
day after degrading day.
God, every time I see her, I want to
take her home and give her a bath,
feed her strawberries and rub her feet.
I want to free her from the rain slick
suffering she's stuck in, wash away the
stench of the lonely diesel strangers,
but I can't save her, hell I can't even
save myself.  So I *** her a Midnight Special,
and light it for her, with a brief sulfuric blaze
of glory bereft of any lasting light...
walk away...Jack-O-Lantern grin
into the lonesome neon night.