Street SpiritJ U S T I C E N E W S & H O M E L E S S B L U E S I N T H E B A Y A R E A

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Is It a Crime?by Claire J. BakerIs it a crime not to be rich?Is it a crime to fall into chasms?A crime that brain synapses misfire,shock one into depression?Shouldn't work places be made more safe and places to work more available?One gets ill, disabled, beaten up,goofy from being scoffed/ignored.Is sensitivity, too, a crime?Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote:"Build thee more stately mansionsO my soul." Surely the emphasisis on SOUL.

San Francisco Historyby George WynnSan Franciscans dance to the tune of "Homelessness by the Bay"on the retro jukeboxwith their eyes closed:in spite of all City Hall'sboasts and toastswe still have the highestpercentage of homelesspeople per populationof any city in the nationIt's 2013 and still the drained and painedunhoused battalionsof brokenheartedshopping cart soldiers come and goIt's still the same old songwith very littlebeing done about the wrong

The Comfortable andthe Coldby Sue Ellen Pector“The ‘new poor’ find themselvesstanding shoulder to shoulder…withpeople they used to disregard….”

— Cornel West and Tavis Smiley

The hungry and the satedthe comfortable and the cold;either wealth warms youor poverty grips you.We, the once middle-class,seek bread and dream rosesbeside the long-time poorwe were taught to abhor or ignore—while the rich watch.

the children are goneby Randy Finglandnegotiationsguarantee ceasefiresbut the burning continuesthe rainforeststhe icecapsscorched smiles brandedon dead infant facesunreported on conglomerate TVeverywhere the hungerof the impoverishedwho die youngfor the same reason

In Praise of OlderHungry Womenby George WynnIn my San Francisco of the 1950s older ladies wore glovesshopping at the EmporiumNow we see on Market Streetolder ladies with outstretched palmsand worn-out clothes with cardboard"give what you can" calling cardsin front of them reminding us ofDorothea Lange's ruined womenof the Great DepressionIf you and I enter a tranceto escape the image of their present circumstanceand go back in time we might seeyoung dreamy faces even aftera hard day's work on the factory lineor young hearts sore but full of fightafter a long day of blows ona post-war picket lineWho knows, we just might get a true picture of their elegance

Scapegoatsby Joan Clair“Their transgressions, even all their sins…heshall put upon the head of the goat and shall sendhim away into the wilderness.” — LeviticusI feel the weight of collective sin in the soupkitchen, not to be escaped on the crushedshoulders of those eating silently there,eating the lie they have nothing to share,a bread so heavy it hasn’t the leavento lift their souls to a new haven.I smell wafts of scapegoats in the air.And there are those who would do morethan allow a few to feedthe bodies and souls of those in need.To solve the plight of those they want unseenthey’d drive them entirely out of sightfrom their solitary ghettosinto the wildernessbearing all our sins.

lepers of the usaby Judy Joy Joneswould you sit by meif I had no homeor have me colonized awaya “leper” of the usawould you take mein your arms and weepif you found an untouchable like memurdered on your streetswould you cometo the city morgueto collect my no name ashesone of society’s throwaways

“see I have carved youout of the palm of my handyou are precious to me”

must have been writtenfor someone elsenot the lower caste like metonight if I’m lucky I’ll dieand won’t be a pieceof garbage beneath your feetthat no one wants to seewould you sit by meif I had no homeor have me colonized awaya “leper” of the usa

untouchable

Daydreamby Sue Ellen PectorOf hunger’s many facesI dream,fresh food to eat,clothing, sans rips and patches,that fits and warms,closeness, fun, laughterand rest.

The Truth We Daredto Liveby Sue Ellen PectorHarvey Milk spoke to ourthirst for someone tobe proud of us;he understood our yearning tobe recognized as blessings;he saw we were dyingto know we mattered forthe selves we were,the truth we dared to live;he honored the loveinside hearts so goodwe lit the stars.

Jesus Is Watching by Judy Joy Jones money changersmoney lendersbewareone day Jesus will returnand those who did nothingto help the dying poorwill try and hidebut their doors will be barredand all their money burnedin return for theirhearts of stonethat allowedthe poorest of the poorto starve before their eyesmoney changersmoney lendersbeware

A man sleeps on a bench at Oakland City Hall Plaza, one of the thousands of homeless people in the East Bay. Tom Lowe photo

February 2013ST R E E T SP I R I T2

Re-fancyingby Joan ClairRe-fancying our neighborhoods,we liquidate the poor.They are not an asset to refinance for.We cannot see the living assetsbeyond our “perfect garbage cans”collecting waste of the lifeless lives

we lead,full of all the things we think we need.But we are all living assets of

One Investment,all rings on the fingers of the divine.

a desert with no oasisby Randy Finglandthe new ployseems to be

to meput the pooron the run keep themwithout possibilityof a real homeof their ownto come back tonowhere to beon/in/underwelcome:yet still withinnative geographicalboundariesnow refugeesset to wanderunprotectedin the country of their nativityin this case the U.S.A.

ceiling the truth by Randy Finglandsome dare call ita housing crisisbecause too manyhouses are emptynot because toomany people arewithout houses

the family unit duringundeclared war(s)by Randy Finglandkeep the orphansmultiplyingbut the orphan movementsleaderless:

on a palm-lined corridornear Birla House in Indiaen route to a prayer meetinga brown Hindu man shot deadby a brown Hindu mantaking the air before dinneron a balcony outsideroom 306 at a motel in Memphisa black Christian man gunneddown by a white Christian manon a heavily trafficked trailthrough Central American junglesan activist nun & entourage executed by unidentified military personnel (probably raised Catholic, CIA trained)

repeated demonstration of how muchnonviolent resistanceby the poor & powerlessis fearedby the armed & dangerous

Living and NotLearningby George WynnIn the summer fogof Union Square agraying olive-skinned woman with babe in her arms who is holding a big cupsmiles and whispersthank you as a youngwoman drops an Abe LincolnOut of the blue a large well-dressedwoman approaches shouting,"They're not even homeless.They're gypsies.You've been taken!""None of your business,"says the young woman."Plus what's all the fuss?I enjoy giving. You areso busy being selfish youcannot enjoy life."The large woman shouts again,"You've been taken. You'll see."The young woman shakes her headwalks away crying to the wind."What is she thinking?" She lets out a long deep breath"Some people live and learn,some people live and never learn."

Unguidedby Joan ClairTired, with a car broken in the shop,getting off a bus, I find a shopping cart,good to ease my back of packagesfor several uphill blocksafter the driver chewed me outfor asking questions about directions.

What must it be like to daily seek a routeuphill and downhill with a heavy cart

and heartin addition to bearing baggagethrown by those unguided by compassion.

no exitby Randy Finglandblow-a-partsare inevitablewhen there’s useof gunpowderbacking any negotiationwhether a penny-antedrug dealor the charadeof winning indigenousheads & heartswhile dressed inbullet-proof vests

Even As You Prayby Sue Ellen PectorFeeling blue, dejected, lost?America stomps on your pridelest hope find you.

America mocks the echo ofevery dream you dare.

Even as you pray, America preys upon you.

Give America your hunger,your need, your trembling,and, calling humiliation your due,America laughs at you.

Supermarket Bluesby George WynnDay before, a gray-haired lady shortchanged a nickelat the supermarketdoesn't say a thingThe next night she returns to same supermarketonly having eaten corn flakes and milk for breakfastto buy a can of pinto beansShe's the next to the last in lineall of a sudden she's in a pickle"One more penny," says the checker"Don't have it," she says

with pleading look"That's what it seems," says the checker. "Next customer!" The lady turns to the man behind her with a pleading look. He says nothing.Outside face down her elbows sag she stamps the ground "Ain't right!"Sighing she rubs her stomachthen closes her eyes and can't help but cry

Respite on MissionStreet by George WynnHis graying mane flowshis mustached face glows.He's a cross between aJack Kerouac wandererand a Samuel Beckett tramp.He likes the anonymity andbareness of cheap hotels and torn curtains blowingout the window evoking no heartfelt emotions.This week it's his room,next week another drifter's.He tells me, the desk clerk here on Mission Street, thathe landed a temporary job fixing rental car machines."This, my last week on the job, I'm treating myself to a week of privacy," he says."Where you going after that?" I ask."It's either the shelter or the street.I'm saving up for my own place.I'm too old to roam.""Good luck," I say."Thanks," he says walking slowlyup the rickety steps with his head bowed.I feel his pain as I do the countlesssouls who pass through thisrun down domain.

Cardboard Boxby Joan ClairA very old man, terribly bent over,carries something in a large cardboard box.As I get closer, I think he must be extremely elderly;even one block must be a mountain to him.How brave he is to carry such a burden in his old age!Then he crosses the street to where I am,and I see not an old man, but a man in his thirties.His eyes are empty pools where water used to be.Unlike a sea turtle, the box on his backwas not made to crawl into, in some grand design,but a travesty so deep only God can see it clearly.And I wonder, can there be peace in a world where this so precious form, halfway to the ground,carries a cardboard box home to nowhere?

Children at St. Mary’s Center in Oakland are sheltered by the massivepuppet of Martin Luther King, Jr. created by seniors in loving tribute.

Lydia Gansphoto

Missingby Joanna BragenDeathDoes not only takeThe weak and the old

It takesThe vibrantThe wittyThe storytellerThe intelligentThe adventurer

In a flash

Here one dayGone the nextI can’t believeI’ll never see you again

MissingWhen you shouldStill be hereWhere did you go?

People left behindTrying to graspTrying to knowWhat to feel

Will I see you again?When every thing is perfectWhere there is no sorrowDoes life begin again?

February 2013 ST R E E T SP I R I T 3

DDoonnaattee oorr SSuubbssccrriibbee ttoo SSttrreeeett SSppiirriitt!!Street Spirit is published by the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC). Homeless vendors receive 50 papers a day, keepALL income from their sales, and educate the community about social justice issues. Please buy Street Spirit only from badgedvendors. If you have questions about the vendor program, please call J.C. Orton on his cell phone at (510) 684-1892.Please donate or subscribe to Street Spirit ! Help us remain an independent voice for justice!

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February 2013

The Clock Ticksby Sue Ellen Pector“With nearly one in two Americans nowliving in or near poverty, everyday peo-ple … have grown weary of the unmiti-gated greed of the mega-wealthy … thepoor are fighting back.”

— Cornel West and Tavis Smiley

How farwill poor peoplebe pushed,how longtortured, taunted, trappedbeforehurling back the liesof their fancy foes?

FOR SON HOUSE(lyrics for unwritten blues)by Claire J. BakerThe Liberty Bell is crackedO Lord, the Bell is crackedBut we all goin' forwardAin't no lookin' back.

The Liberty Bell is shiningNear glowing in the darkBut we all feeding pigeonsA-sittin' in the park.

We come from Highway 61All the way to Philly.We gotta play the blues"lowdown shaking chilly."

(After Street Spirit photo of SonHouse, blues great, at Liberty Bell)

In a Park’s Greenby Joan ClairThree homeless men are asleepon a sunny day in a park’s greennearby small children on swings.Nearby, their mother is watching —not the homeless men,but the children swinging.Praise God for a little trust.Praise God for the mother not seeingthe homeless men as threatening.Praise God, the Mother of All,for watching, embracing,the children, their mother,

the homeless men —all equal in the world of being,reflected in a park’s green in sunlight.

The BourgeoisieOpinesby Sue Ellen Pector“Like a man with a knife in his backstaggering along a crowded streetwithout aid, the poor have beenstabbed with the blade of indifference.”

— Cornel West and Tavis Smiley

The bourgeoisie believesthey deserve comfort,believes poor folks deserve reproach.Poor folks, the bourgeoisie claims,deserve shame, deserve to die young.Land of the—home of the—what home, whose home,is nobody home?

Street SpiritStreet Spirit is published by AmericanFriends Service Committee. The ven-dor program is run by J.C. Orton.Editor, Layout: Terry MessmanWeb designer: Ariel Messman-RuckerContributors: Claire J. Baker, JoannaBragen, Jonathan Burstein, Joan Clair,Carol Denney, Randy Fingland, LydiaGans, Christine Hanlon, Judy Joy Jones,Dong Lin, Tom Lowe, Daniel Marlin,Mary Meriam, Doug Minkler, Sue EllenPector, Robert Lavett Smith, Robert L.Terrell, Dick Waterman, George Wynn

All works copyrighted by the authors.

The views expressed in Street Spirit arti-cles are those of the individual authors,not necessarily those of the AFSC.

Street Spirit welcomes submissions ofarticles, poems, photos and art.Contact: Terry MessmanStreet Spirit, 65 Ninth Street,San Francisco, CA 94103E-mail: spirit@afsc.orgWeb: http://www.thestreetspirit.orgVisit Street Spirit on Facebook:www.facebook.com/streetspiritnews

Shopping Cartby Joan ClairIt is an art to keep one’s life togetherin a shopping cart,to be a consumer in reverseshopping, storeless, in the universe.It is an art to live within the meansand meaning of a shopping cart,outside the many roomsof those who, over consumed,throw marketing excess out in rage,screaming at the lack of meaningstuffing their lives with waste,standing in the way of simply being.I am amazed at some homeless elders’ carts,blankets and clothes in neat folds,layers of grace in intricate space,an orderly humblenessso out of step with sanctified numbnessthat one could fall apart outragedat those who order homelessness away —those who could discover on their knees,in prayer and praise, a reason to believebefore essentials bare as theseof those who live with dignity.Organized disgrace, crimes of legalized hate,may take the carts of the homeless awaybut cannot separate them from Godwhose home is in their heartwith or without a shopping cart.

Son House at the cracked Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. Photo by Dick Waterman

Great Highway Dreamby George WynnAll the anxiety of being homeless and pennilessmakes him tiredHe drifts off to sleepearly on the sand dunesthe pelt of rain upon his blanket andface is something moreHe imagines it to be ahillside waterfall near a monasteryand hall leadingto a room and bedand prayer booksHe wakes refreshedit is time to leave the city to hitch hike to permit more space in his life which lays before him like Ocean Beach

From the Busby George WynnFrom the bus along TurkI see a forlorn face I knew from school wearing patched up clothes rolling a cigarettestanding in the MissionRescue line for a hot meal

Back then he would dress so sharphe was the big dealplaying the horn so sweet making the church ladies weepbegging for more of the music treat

I wanted to jump off the busthrow myself in his armssaying, "hey man remember me?"but then I thought for what it's worthperhaps his feelings are really hurthim being an out-of-work exile who never left San Francisco and has no home on the streets where he was born

Street Gigby Carol DenneyI play on the street todayin front of Coldwell Bankerunless it poursthe closer it getsto Christmasthe more generousshoppers becomeif you wearthe right shoesit’s a little sadthey love thereally bright colorsif you wearthe right shoesyou get paperotherwise it’snickels and dimes

Muir Woodsby Claire J. BakerBreathing redwoods’ exhaled quietI view wild beautyat ease among trunks,

twigs and streams.Deep inside my beingI find home.

Left UntoldHaiku by Joan ClairBlankets on the street,sleeping bag against a wallstories left untold.

February 2013ST R E E T SP I R I T4

habeas corporateby Randy Finglandexxon’s faceis exxon’s logoetched into customer brainslike the hides of range steersen route to Kansas Cityabattoirsnot a real personbut a knock-off nonbeingbacked with a buff body of paperworkwho has the rightssame as a walking breatherwith a ruddy-flushed faceto answer to the musicwhen it reaches the earfact is if an actual live beingperpetrated the same crimes

against innocent residents of the wilderness

against trusting consumers who stalkthe malls confident of a safe buy

against parents who innately sense not to give their kids toxic toys

against drivers who say no to cars with rear-ender fire-prone gas tanks,

or against homeowners in hillsfull of mudslide probabilities,

by suppressing reports of the hazardswell the thirty-something adult next to youif responsiblewould be in jail or dead from shame or revenge in some countriesodd that mother nature’smore of a fleshed-out personin most peoples’ mindsthan a soulless oil companybut she never gets representedbodilyat courtlike exxon

Mental Health, Inc.by Doug MinklerSpecializing in yoga, hiking, meditationand coerced chemical lobotomies (psychotropic drug regimens)Our compassionate medical doctorswill grant you a labeland, in so doing, deem you disabledYour pills won't cost a centand we will help with your rentUnfortunately you will get a little burlyand die 25 years earlySorry, no more dreamstoo bad about your self esteem.Take the whites, the blues and the redsthey are all required meds.Adherence means a checkwhat the heck

you get off the streetand something to eat.It's a package deal —you get the pillstaxpayers get the bills and the drug companies make two killings.

Health Warning: Psychiatric medicationsdamage brains, wreck bodies and areaddictive. Drug companies make exorbi-tant profits, but take no responsibility forthe diabetes, massive weight gain, sugar-induced comas, sexual dysfunction,uncontrollable facial tics, personality loss,depression, heart attacks, strokes and sui-cide that their drugs cause. If you loseyour prescription, you can go to any phar-macy, hospital or mental health center.You will receive assistance immediately. Ifyou want to stop taking these drugsbecause they are not helping you or theside effects are too debilitating, be awarethat sudden withdrawal can cause danger-ous side effects, including death. You musthave the close supervision of a caring,competent physician as you slowly with-draw from them. Good luck finding one.

Drug companies are in a rush to market their super profitable, addictive and dan-gerous psych-meds to children. One of the most heinous crimes of the 21stCentury will be the massive over-medication of children. Physicians' willingness touncritically follow pharmaceutical companies' profit-driven recommendations toprescribe dangerous drugs to children will one day be recognized as criminal negli-gence and both the doctors and drug makers will be prosecuted accordingly.

Artwork by Doug MinklerPharmaKids, Inc.

oh the men behindthe guns

— for Phil Ochsby Randy Finglandhistory begins with accountsof justified actionsas armed force evolvedto include bigger widerdeath swathsa sling shota cannon’s “whiff of grapeshot”the shock zonea hydrogen bomb extends tothe coordinates a droneexacts with eachconcentrated fire-power missileto operatethese weapons require a thumb& a brain under the controlof another’s mind

Lone Survivorby George WynnTo pass the time until he falls asleep in a Chinatown alleynear the Ping Yuen housingproject of his childhoodhe writes a poem in his headof a live grenade and the men long ago deadHe gives the poem shapeand texture until it's almost tangible and burns and bites like his wounds didbut he doesn't know if the writing will helpIt's the seventh anniversaryof his single mother's suddendeath of a coronary a week before he (an only child) gotback from Iraq He folds his hands to rememberoffers a Buddhist prayerfor his mother's soulthen feels weary even a tremorand rubs his eyes doubtingif he will ever be whole

Gratefulby Joan ClairBundled, her face red with cold,she stands by her shopping cart,full of neat folds of blankets and clothesand beams rays of gratitudeas if I gave her a fortune,instead of three quarters.

Is God this grateful when we give upa tiny bit of selfishness,keeping so much more than giving?Could our creator be this humble?

Why?by Joan ClairIn the bookstore’s bathroom,a woman has just washed herselfand stoops down to get her possessionsenclosed in plastic garbage bags.I don’t look at her directly,but what I see is an aura of beautyemanating from her face.And the question is, “Why?”How can the radiant sunbe enclosed in a lotus of clouds?

"Keep This HomelessMan Moving"by George Wynn"Them cops and security guards with faces staring at melike clenched fists mightas well scream their mantra:"Keep this homeless man moving"That's what it said on page one in the journal I picked up off the ground a young man had dropped fleeing the authorities down Market StreetThe last page read: "Shove your pretense cable car land you can hate my yellow teethseeing is believingjust give me something to eat"The last paragraph read:"Some day the authoritieswho are protecting the haves from the have notsare gonna run thisstruggling man straightout of town"

license to smokeby Randy Finglandimperialism beginsin the will to takeover someone’s lifethrough the shortterm (nicotine addiction)& very longterm (conquistadoroccupation)a motivationto cross into territorythat’s vulnerableto the profiteerswho finance these oft fatal incursions

Vets in Courtby George WynnA grizzled man thin as a branchmissing two fingersof his right handfinds his seat nextto me on the 21 Hayes bus."Just came from court,” he says, "Caught me riding the trains without payingand sleeping in the MUNI Station.""Bad luck," I say.He grins. "Judge says, ‘You did wrong. I gotta punish you.’"Why judge, the night is longjust trying to keep warm.""You want me to reward you?""No judge, just give me a break.""What happened to the hand?""Vietnam.""Me too," says the judge."How you doing otherwisebesides your court problem?""The bad dreams come in waves." The judge squeezes his eyes, as if he knows. "When it's a wet and cold night, judge, I fret. Feel like a soaked pigeon.""I bet," says the judge, shaking his head. "Case dismissed!""Thank you judge.""Stay out of the underground!""Will do, judge.""But keep warm ... somehow," saysthe judge, "and God bless you!"The man slaps me on the back, getting off the 21 at St. Mary's."So long. Gotta see my friend Mac, like a son to me,caught pneumonia on the street."

February 2013 ST R E E T SP I R I T 5

The Flower Girlby Terry Messman“She always arrives late, with flowers!”That’s how your mother always recalled your childhood: flowers and smiles.Every morning when she woke you, you opened your eyes already smiling.Out of the cradle endlessly smiling.One dark morning, I saw you walk into the valley of the shadow of death

— still smiling. A massive brain tumor clouded your mind, impaired your speech, gave you headaches, erased your memory. But it could never erase that smile. It was still shining in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.That smile was the last thing I saw as they wheeled you away to surgery, the first thing I saw when it was over, all those endless, agonizing hours later.The neurosurgeon said you woke up smiling, despite the torturous pain of a craniotomy, blood loss and transfusion. They reattached your skull with 46 metal staples and titanium screws, yetyour smile is attached more lastingly. It lasted all through the entire next year of pain and disability.Even as your world was shattered by illness, epilepsy, disability, job loss, and constant threats of eviction, you never once thought of yourself.You rejoiced that sharing the plight of the poor would give you deeper empathy for others facing sorrow and poverty.

A friend was so moved by your spirit of selfless kindness, he told me, “We should build a religion around her.”

Yesterday, you were in full flower, smiling in joy when a flower festival gave you overflowing baskets full ofpink and red Camellia flowersto give to seniors living in poverty.

Of course, in the real world of poverty, illness, evictions, and cruel injustice, blossoms are pointless, and beauty is powerless.Flowers and smiles aretoo fragile, too fleeting.They blossom only to fade away, fleeting as life itself — the life you nearly lost.

Yet some blossoms are perennials.As we once sang, “Yes, it is bread wefight for, but we fight for roses too!”Dostoyevsky’s Prince Myshkin believed“Beauty will save the world.”By taking beauty to the shelter,your flowers saved one part of it.

You smile in the spirit of Don Quixote: Free flowers for the poor could subvert the whole economy, beauty could ruin the banking system, kindness could wreck capitalism.

As you arrived bearing flowers, beaming away as you gave them away, I suddenly saw you so clearly 20 years ago, on your wedding day.You wore a flower wreath in your hair. Flowers in your hair. Flowers everywhere.

Free flowers for the poor could subvert the whole economy. Art by Jonathan Burstein

Cold Sidewalkby Sue Ellen PectorInside, I’mat the keyboard,at the window.Outside, a woman,beneath elevated train tracks,leans against a column,swiftly lowers her pants,relieves herself and departs.Inside the grocerycustomers scooporganic grains from tidy bins.Outside the grocerythe hungry manasks for money.On the trainriders stare at computers.Outside, silently sleeping,the destitute manhuddles beneath blanketson the cold sidewalk.

Mother Lossby Joan ClairI wanted to call my mother to let her know, “I want to come home.”But I couldn’t rememberthe number of her telephone.She’d been gone so long.When she was aliveshe was too depressedto build a nest.I never felt that I belonged.But still, “Mother,” my soul cries,“I want to come home.”

Women Sleeping inChairs in San Franciscoby George WynnLong ago back in the Midwestshe never imagined her golden years sleeping in a chair(the only way she gets her rest)in a women's shelter dayby day in the city by the bayBetween winks she listens tothe voices of long lost friendsand realizes her past is finishedyet has reveries about starting a new life with new friends butit doesn't feel the same almost like the difference between strolling under the sunand walking in the rainIn the morning she writesdown her words in her journalsometimes it gives her comfortsometimes it makes her sadderbut she is determined that hopebeckons and her nightmare willsomeday soon be gone even as a woman her same age who sleeps in the next chair says there's no magic in the words on a page she sees her write every dayand accuses her of being addictedto the song of hope

One More Stepby George WynnOn Sixth Streetour eyes meet andhis unwanted blueeyes say I've learnedto make do without

His face breathes gracerelaxed lips force a smilejaw slack as if cravingbeyond craving to inhabita new and better space

I offer the hunched-overold man help with the beat-up suitcases he's lugging to the pews of St. Boniface formorning sleep

In front of the churchhe offers a thank you kindly"You must be very tired," I say"Yes but I always tell myselfjust one more step."

Tenderloin Barterby George WynnHe's streetwisebold with aheart of goldand so is sheEvery weekendmorning on aTenderloin stoopan old Chinese womanfeeds him sweetand sour porkkung pao chickensteamed rice and coffeeWeekdays he oftenhelps her carry groceriesnever asking anything in return"You help me for freeI help you for free"she says with a ridiculouslystrong handshake for her ageBetween crazed bites ofmeat he blows kissesto the wind and herShe laughs and offers napkins"You will see me Monday?"He throws out his callused palms"My hands were made tocarry your bags madam"

Housing AuthorityOfficial Trying to ShakeHands with Man inHomeless Encampment by George Wynn"Forget it! Don't talk.Every word you say is a damn lie.You see what I need but youwon't do a thing for me.You make me sick.Stay the hell away.I ain't got no timefor you — ever!Yeah, your type made me crazy.So what. And don't look at mewith no uppity slick eyeslike I live in the city dump.Shut up for a change — chump!"

On Prime Time TV(in a small town)

by Claire J. BakerNight. Trying to get warmera well-meaning man, not oldyet way too thin, got wedgedin a 16-inch drain pipecoming out of a hillside.

A rescue squad pulled himfree by his dirty boots.Photographers were quick to shootthe stunned man, shirtless, half-ill.("Thank you, thank you," he said.)His body temp was subnormaland his life had no place to go.All he really had was his freedomand it was cold and tightat the edges, a tricky combination.

A Dream for Americaby Sue Ellen PectorPly the worldwith peace, Americathough you preferto taunt, tortureand scurryinto the shadows.

Ply your peoplewith peace, America,though you prefer toshackle or starve the

broken of spiritbroken of pursebroken of body.

Though you prefer tobludgeon our dreams,foist hope, America.

the side showby Randy Finglandwhile I was watchingthe 2nd Gulf Waranother statisticin the homeless countwas added to the rolls

she wasn’t a 50 milliondollar missile sent outpacked to becomean exciting exploding lightin the night skybut another woman lostin the shifting sandsof economic uncertainty

now she has a perchnext to the BART entrancewhere she extends a smallhand & a smile in thanksfor the coins that trickledown into her palm fromthe cost of America’s might

February 2013ST R E E T SP I R I T6

On the Face of CalmPondsby Sue Ellen PectorReflect upon resilience.You survived profound pain.Reflect upon discernment.What stings today rekindles old wounds,you distinguish sting from wound.Reflect upon healing,in your wisdomyou cried with trees,you cried with dogs,you cried with wind and sea.Tomorrow will come,reflecting your goodnesson the face of calm pondsin the cadence of rippling rivers,in the breath of stars.Inspired by the poem “Once” by Claire J.Baker from Street Spirit.

Blueby Sue Ellen PectorI peer at crow’s choreography,she dances swirls throughpockets of breeze,blue the background.Blue is the ocean waving to me,blue the eye of a dogwho purrs healing into me.

Mary’s Crucifiedby Joan ClairMary’s crucified in the starving mother dog,agony in her face as she races around a moundat an intersection surrounded by cars.Mary’s crucified in her starving bodywith its beaten bones sticking outexcept where unborn babies bulgeand her nipples drag along the ground.Mary’s crucified in each act of crueltywhich led to her homelessness.

Two Street Soulsby Claire J. BakerI will my soulsilentwhose griefshoutsdown the streetup to the cloudsat the deathof a good dogwhose canine soulmore than humanwas amazing.

Somebody Cares!(after Sue Ellen Pector)by Claire J. BakerYes,what about street dogs,the soft undersides of jaws& paws laid at nightupon face or armwarding off cold & harm.

Dogs with hungry sorrowfuleyes will gaze into our own.If we have zero foodto offer, not even a bone,a dog still claims us,downtrodden as we are,as his home.

Shelter of Loveby Joan ClairShe and her two small dogs live on the street.They seek shelter together; they are family.If she moves away from themto go into a buildingwhere dogs, punished for being dogs,are not allowed,they strain from the leash, tied up outside,and point in her directionlike they’re fixing on the North Starto guide them to escape like former slaves.They feel no relief until she is retrieved.Where is the Canadawhere families of humans and other speciesowning nothing but each othercan live in peace?“Two dogs are too many.We will allow one small dog,”say the rules and rulers of buildings.She and her two dogs live on the streetwith no shelter beyondthe shelter of love that binds them togetherand does so forever.

How Old Is She?by Joan Clair“Hi, old dog!” the woman shrieks,“How old is she? How old is she?”I reply, “As old as you, as old as me,as we are seen as two old hagsby those in chains of their mortality.They would never say, ‘Hello, old hag!’But we know that’s what they think.Therefore, first see the joy she feels

in seeing you,then her outgoing spirit sharing love,her uncontaminated trust.And only then see her as an old dog,

if you must; and let that also be the same for us.”

Considering Tearsby Claire J. BakerHow beautiful are those whichwell up the slow steep wayfrom one's toes.May these outpourings flowas long & heavy as they mustwhen & wherever they come

over a gravestoneor over a lettershed on a pet's paw ora loved one's shoulder.

When misty eyes sting,when streamings reach lipswe taste & savor, findthe moisture, though salty,

sweet indeed...

A Holy Blockby Joan ClairI live on a holy blockwith hundreds of worshippersin the form of flowersin irregular pews —a wild, intangible groupwith plenty of roomin the gloryof their morning monasteries.My dog pauses in praisein the morning light,and so do I.

Hintsby Sue Ellen PectorBouncing between memoriesI am haunted byghastly places I lived andtantrums bullies threw at me.

Then there are hintsa memory of coming upon atrembling dog,tethered to a bench.I sat with her,murmuring comfortuntil her human returned.

This, I am reminded,is who I am.

Interrogation File,Dog Heavenby Daniel Marlin

1. TRANSCRIPTWhere were you at 2 a.m. on July 21, 2012?In People’s Park, Berkeley,half-awake on the grass.My chin rested on these front paws.The fog lay down at my side.

Were you alone?No. Nearby, in deep sleep,was the one who fed me—his own meat, sometimes.

Did the one who fed you have a home?We had no doorwith lock and key.No room with walls and wooden sky.

Why did you rise, with agrowl in your throat, when the stranger approached?I did what a dog is born to do.

Which is?Others have tried to harmthe one who fed me,while he slept. Once, two tall boys came with a baseball bat. They didn’t notice me until I lunged, and smelled their terroras they ran.

On July 21 at 2 a.m., a stranger approached?Yes, he wore a skin of static; voices came out of a thing on his shoulder.His own voice was rough.Also, he had moonlightin his hand, a long tube,which blinded me.He shined iton the face of my sleeping one,but did not wake him.

What did the stranger say?I don’t know his words; his sound was hard.He meant us harm.

Then?I rose, growling, and bared my teeth at him. His fear became a vapor in the air.

What else do you remember?A great force threw me down.Then, nothing.

2. JUDGMENT:On July 21, at 2 a.m. in People’s Parka University police officershot this sister down,for doing what she was born to do.

She is received, with grace.

Dogs give companionship and love, and their undying friendship makes life more bearable for countless people on the streets.

February 2013 ST R E E T SP I R I T 7

ROBBIEby Claire J. Bakerdo you ever think of us,your original family?We love you still, havekept your room openall these years.We visit you on thestreets as sparrows.We bounce, bright-eyed,around you, Robbie,when crowds are thin andyour basket gathers dust.Surely you have seen usand maybe smiled.

Emptying Your Dresserby Claire J. BakerFindingyour deep poemon a random sheet,I wonderhow much more youmight have written

ROBBIE RAN AWAYby Claire J. Bakerwe recall todayhow old you must be —if you still exist,and how young you werewhen you ran away.You have become to usan unending ladderwith rungs so highthey reach into heavenand above the sky.

We Surprise Ourselvesby Claire J. BakerWe two miracles need no weatherreport, we read the sky,read our lifelines' story, readeach other's minds, read betweenbetween the lines and the lions.We walk into Berkeley hills,stroll in rain to a lake,to a proverb, to God's house,to rainbow's end wherewe share a pastel smoothie.Friend, we lose in inches,then gain a mile of smiles.We surprise ourselves by makingthis tough life sing like a larkjust before the dawning dawns.

The Expurgated Versionfor Bobby Colemanby Robert Lavett SmithWhat strange chain of events compelled me here?Ordinary moments redolent with pain,Private regrets impossible to explainSettle like dusty neon on my beer.For part of every day I disappear—Or wish I could. Such pleasures as remainRing true, but seem diluted: John ColtraneBurnishes afternoon’s decayed veneer.A month from now, I will turn 54.I want a woman I won’t ever have.My failures throng around me, keeping score.Aches in my teeth confirm I’m still alive.Yet summer slyly hints at something more,Some revelation shortly to arrive.

FOR MIKE M.by Claire J. BakerDamn that rain-puddled road!Damn your car skidding into a wall!We almost wish you were a statueso you'd not suffer constantleg pain which you highlymedicate to endure.On better days, does your spiritfeel musical?Have you heard thehypnotic first eight notes ofLiszt's Un Sospiro (a sigh)?When hearing it, we think of youlong on the streets —a titanium brace in your bad leg,sighing at pain, yet uncomplaininglike a statue of marble or bronze.One day, Mike, may you glidefrom your sidewalk perchas if you were always a bird,and now at last your wingsare strong, unbound.

The Night They Called ToTell Me You Were Goneby Robert Lavett SmithIn memoriam: Patricia Lewis Smith, 1953-2005

The night they called to tell me you were goneWas more grotesque for being so ordinary.Rain fell in sheets. A fitful doze, aloneWith a bad cold, heartsick and world-weary.Just before ten, the phone rang. In a flashI woke from dreams of staples in your skull:Metallic ciphers ate your shaven fleshSpelling grim prophecies beyond recall.The doctor’s voice seemed distant, would not sayThat you had died, but only that you’d “coded.”I knew, of course. My vision bled to grayLike an old photograph; weak light eroded.My former life was done, once and for all;A chasm yawned, and I began to fall.

Beginning to Snowby Mary MeriamSuch a dark night I’m walking in.Something wet with soft substancelands on my upper lip—a snowflake.Over a bridge, over cold rushing water,I stand and look for stars.

Loriby Mary Meriamthe supermarket check-out clerk’swarm ready smilepenetrates my sore mood,fluorescent lights, my failures“I remember you don’t need receipts,”she says, showing it, taking it back,and laughing playfullyI smile and let my good wishes washall over her, her feet standing for hours,and all the troubles foundin supermarket check-out jobsfor older married ladies

Anyone Couldby Mary MeriamAnyone could, for love, traverse the world.Cally sings to trees, disperse the world.She bikes through forests in a foreign land,winter, summer, empty purse, the world.The jet plane lifts and lowers, glints of steel.The four winds faster, harder, curse the world.When moss and violets line the rocky creeks,when all that flows is breaking, verse the world.Flying or stopping still to pen the page,having for better or for worse, the world.My simple summary, my gift to Cally:there is a good that will reverse the world.

Trying to Liveby Mary MeriamLittle crocus, little springtimetrying to lift off hate,bodily pain, heartache.So sincerely purple and yellowfor a moment I do forget,until another funeral pounds pastand longingsweeps my thoughts towards you again.Why is everything so hard all the time, little father.

The Loser’s Lamentby Mary MeriamThe winning wealthy poets, photographedby Avedon, will fly between their homes,collecting prizes, teaching classes, staffedwith personal assistants, stuffed with poemsthat dribble from their mouths and land in booksthat stock the superstores, the most eliteof schools, and shelves of readers with the looksto share their beds and take a dinner seat.But I’m a poet of a single table.I wash my dishes at the kitchen sink.I have nowhere to go, and so I thinkI’ll sit and write a poem at the table.The price I pay for every line I writeis measured by the gods in bloody light.

A Tidbit as Treasureby Claire J. Baker"Don't let) ... the jewel on the left

side of your chest lose its luster."— Hazim Hikmet, imprisoned Turkish poet, 1930

Reading these wordswe begin to gather everytenderness within us,up into the stratosphere,the Milky Way,other galaxies —

other others,our hearts shiningall the way to God.

Prodded by Bulliesby Sue Ellen PectorTumbling, rolling, steady stride sans destinationthe perpetual, cyclical rhythm of wandering.Resting is verboten for homeless people.Prodded by bullies who run themout of town,out of dignity,out of life.

Inspired by the poem “Hobo” by Philip Hunter fromStreet Spirit.

my brother’sheartbeatsby Judy Joy Jonesyeah sweet babyhear ya heartbeatsand see yo’ tears of blooddying before our eyeson dem cold fuckin’concrete streetssystem’s made to killnot healpeople getting’ richoff po’ man’s backhave a drinksweet darlin'it’s on meoh yeah babyhumans not madeto die like animalson filthy streetspeople walkin’ byhatin’ po’ maneatin’ outta garbage canpolice arrestin’po’ fallin’ downfrom hunger an neglectyo piercin’ screamsecho in da nightbeggin’ usto give a damnif ya seesthe morning’s lightso darlin’have a drink on meyeah sweet babydis one’s on meman’s not madeto die on filthy streetstomorrow

could be meyeah sweet babyhear ya heartbeatsan see yo’ tears of blooddyin’ before our eyeson these cold fuckin’concrete streetstomorrow

could be me

Photograph by Dong Lin from his book One American Reality.

February 2013ST R E E T SP I R I T8

Which Road Do WeTakeby Judy Joy Jones ok we can bombthe world back into the stone agefind anyone anywhereeven see inside their homesdown to which room they're ingreat now whathey I have an ideayeah methe tie dye artistwith rose colored shadeswhy not make a huge globeand highlightevery bloodcurdling screamof each starving baby and childwe can tracktheir sound frequency wavesscreams resonate on vibesall their ownespecially newborn baby soundsand then we canmake another huge globeand lit like a jewel it shall bewith the souls on earththat want to give life back to lifethe souls thatlove so much it hurtsand want to giveuntil not one person is withoutfood shelter and medical aidand pretty soonthat old globe will be lit uplike a Christmas treeand the vibes of lovewill run likeblood-filled rivers and streamsbleeding red everywhereit’s easy to trackburning love cuz it’s a blazing firelit from aboveand we can track thesilent tears of the poor elderlythrown out in the streetswaiting to diewho are too tired to even cryseems we decidedyou and Iwe decided they weretaking up too much spaceand stole theironly livelihoodand saidgo and die die die diebut for some reasontheir silent tears

left a pattern inthe computer’s eyethat just wouldn’t go wayand even if we triedto delete it … no wayit just came back … stronger with their sufferingin full raging forcelike a violent windsomething ‘bout that hurtin’ vibejust won’t lay down and die gets right in our damned faceunder the skinpicks at our brainduring the nightno matter how we tryand pretendit ain’t thereand oh those in wheelchairsand on crutcheswith no means of supportlet’s track ‘em and match their needswith those givers on the globelit like a Christmas treewho chose love over hatechose giving over killingcuz they know the truthin two weeksthe amount the world spendson weapons to killevery man woman and childin just two short weeksthat money would feedevery soul upon the earthno one would ever behungry or in need againjust two short weeks folksgee whizcan’t we hold off the tooth and clawjungle urge to kill mangle and mutilatejust two friggin’ weeksgive me a breakthere is a power so greatit can stop nuclear warwith one thought wavebut you seeah yes it’s calledfree willand that’s where we come inyou and mewhich road do we takekill mangle mutilate and stealor love caress embrace and cherishour brother sisters fathers and mothersyeah seems the mighty handwe cannot seehas decided it’s all upto you and meyup all up to you and meso while the bloodcurdling screams

go on and on and in the cold darkest nightswhile we lay snug in our warm bedswith our tummies very well fed....thinking it doesn’t mattercuz no one can see what we do and we can dowhat we damned well pleaseseems we conveniently forgetnot one thought word or deedby us is ever erasedit’s in the etherfor eternityand you and me mightwanna be very very slowin picking the roads we travelwe can live for our own gratificationor we can choose to forget selfand givewe can bomb the worldinto the stone agewe can track allthe bad peoplebut funny aboutthose roads we taketo claim them as badthey all lead to a fork in the middleand the arrow we shot to kill anotherhas nowhit our very own backscuz we let our brotherdie of hungerhomelessnessand neglectthe badwe are so hell bent on killing'the bad' are youand they are meand when we turnour blood-thirst into lovewe will clearly seethat was always the only path to seekyes let’s get two huge globesone filled with bloodcurdling screamsof babies dying on freezing concrete streetsand the other globe will belit brighterthan all earth’s skies at nightby the heartbeats of the givers of the flameof eternal lifethat chose the roadof life … of love … and of peace

amen

A Hard Lotby Judy Joy Joneswhy is that young woman bending over herloaded shopping carton the groundshe digs through everything in itas her young child screams“Mamma Mamma”squirming in his chair“I’m going to check out son … wait for me”as she turnedpushing her carttowards the checker’s standshe never stood upstill bent overnearly to the groundshe cocked her head to the rightand looked up at mesmiling“yes it takes foreverto decide what to buyand my husband always tells menot to buy anything if i don’treally need it”and with her broken backbent nearly to the groundthe young womancontinued pushing her cart towards the checkout standi couldn’t stop the tearsfrom pouring down my facewhy such a hard fatefor a young woman with a childa broken backand yet on her facethe smile of an angelmy heart mourned for her fateand i prayed to bemore grateful each dayfor the lot i haveand i asked for forgivenessfor anything i have done to anyoneand the universethat was not done with lovelove is the only thing that lastsand the most powerful force on earthmay God be with this special spiritand guide her every stepand also with you and ito help us rememberto leave each one we meetwith a smile hope and lovenothing else really does matterbut the love we leaveand tomorrow’s not promised

tomorrow’s not promised

“FAUX STREET REVISITED.” The viewpoint of a homeless woman at ground level, as passers-by hurry past and ignore her. Painting by Christine Hanlon, oil on canvas, 37 1/2” by 84”