i can count visable crackpipes with the help of my other hand

they shove objects
most of which i'd assume
were dirt rejected shit
from the ground: source of fire
cellophane of some sort
the stash of butts
trampled underfoot junky
to junky
i swear,
the orifices of their ragged cloth is in
constant stimuli:
pockets are habitus to these people.
by their engulfing presence
they intoxicate the streets
they cut the air as they stake,
replaying their burnt movements
like broken
social
scene.

fulfillment here is
the savage at wander on temple grounds.

they possess Revelation in their clumsy step
moving forth to backward-down,
honestly, the energy left in their minds
can only let them jerk
only the erection of twitch
may travel them--as if
they can feel their giant steps as
corrupting tracks in the wetness of earth
and their damp souls feeding the spirit
through awful experience.

this damp suits the ocean of filth.
independent pharmacy haven.

the police do nothing.

i've been disgusted with a lover i can fully be
infatuated
with the knowledge of presence
of being
HERE
and knowing
THIS EXISTENCE.

this is i on the freakshow 20
on my 38th day of homelessness.
i come in observance of the streets.
i thrive for the realities
they conceive to me.