three drops
of blood
dark red
as ketchup
upon a white
crumpled up
napkin
three shopping
carts filled
with plastic
bottles
clothes and
thick wool
blankets
behind a
bus stop
there is
a bum around
here
in Sherman Oaks
that alternates
her residence
from
the street
that the
Ralphs is on
to the
street that
the Walgreens
is on
and to
the street
before
Los Angeles
Valley College
next to the
L.A. River
she is
old and short
and skinny and
constantly
covered up in
a huge
puffy coat
luxurious
and silly
like a
royal robe
her face
hidden with
quiet dignity
like a celebrity
in disguise
almost shy
and absolutely
silent
most of
the time
and even
when she’s
taking to herself
ranting
with passionate
senselessness
in front
of the Ralphs
or the Walgreens
or in front
of the college kids
and the
L.A. River
she appears
sweet
and regal
and tonight
in front
of the
Walgreens
she was
bleeding
and I saw
it
under her
tiny
rustling feet
three drops
of blood
dark red
as ketchup
upon a white
crumpled up
napkin
her small
hands
protruding forth
from huge
sleeves
the trail
of blood
originating
from somewhere
passed her
palms
and the blood
dripping off
slowly
without pattern
more than
anything
I wish
to be wrong
to have
viewed things
improperly
to have rushed
to conclusions
more than
anything
I wish
for the bum
around here
in Sherman Oaks
to be
stronger
than me
and most
to be a
defiant
rebellious
non-medicated
insane figure
someone that
doesn’t get
sad and
overwhelmed by
the impulses
to want
to give up
and die
and that
more importantly
doesn’t succumb
to these
impulses
someone that
doesn’t need
a new car
or more money
someone that
is content
with what
was handed to
her
however rotten
and doesn’t
complain
someone
devoid of fear
and anxiety
someone that
lives
simply
and simply
to live
someone to
admire
and not pity
standing waist high
in the belly of a trailer
with your work belt
dripping with sweat
in the industrial part
of Sun Valley
California
the light bulb fading
on and off
the fan on
swirling, blasting the dry
hot, musky air
the boxed-in humidity
fogging up
your glasses
the 15-pound boxes
shooting down
the metal slide
zip code side up
half of the time
"JAHM ON DIRTEEN DOWR!"
the Russian zip code sorter
above you
shouts, indicating
to load faster
that the conveyor belt's
jammed with
backed-up boxes
standing chest high
in the belly of a trailer
at the back of
a shipping terminal
sinking
at the age of 19
scanning zip codes
and loading boxes
the future uncoils
in front of you
like a disengaging snake
revealing an idea
of deconstructing
truth
and you start
to think about
diabetes
early-age heart trouble
severe back problems
cancer
unemployment
unpaid parking tickets
the classes
at community college
you'll never finish
unpaid tuition fees
the degree you'll
never get
the red 18-year-old car
with the one gray
colored panel
over the right tire and
the cracked radiator
you'll always have
and never afford
to fix
standing neck high
in the mute surroundings
of your own creation
you look to the fan
and the flickering
light bulb
and watch the trailer's
walls come down
substituting the steel
with tall, quiet
bubbling fire
and you see
a perfect
starless night
above the tips
of the growing flames
and you
stop
to drop the box and
close your eyes
to accept it all.
I am sorry
for not giving you
the 86 cents
I had when I
saw you
black and old
standing, shivering
without an eye
holding up
the wet piece
of cardboard
with illegible
writing
on the corner
of Sunset and
Crescent Heights
but the light
was green
and rush hour traffic
in Hollywood
is like an
insane and retarded
conveyor belt
and when the lady
in the SUV
stopped
at the same
green light
and gave you
some money
my guilt
was replaced
with something
else that stayed
with me throughout
the drive home
from work
going up Laurel Canyon
with the 5pm sun
breaking through
the smoky clouds
above the
San Fernando Valley
mountains
like a frozen explosion
I wish more than
anything
that you were
in my driver’s seat
looking at
this
seeing where
the rain is
falling and where
the rain is heading
sharing this
moment where
the only thing
that exists is
the pure essence
of humanity’s
potential
passing
Mulholland Dr
approaching Ventura Blvd
the rain has
stopped
and I see
a tall man
walking on the sidewalk
who just dropped
a pack of cigarettes
and another man
following closely
notices and
bends down
reaches for the pack
and hands it
back to the
unexpecting man
shocked by
this random act
of kindness
I look up
and see a brighter
red outlining
the shapes
of clouds
slowly moving
over the valley
and I think that
something is trying to
communicate an idea
of oneness
of how everything
from the black bum
missing an eye
to the lady
in the SUV
to the guy
handing someone back
a pack of cigarettes
to me and you
and us and them
how we are all
connected somehow
for some reason
and
in moments
like these
I could believe
in us.
