A Publication of the Coalition on Homelessness
THE WAY IT IS
J.W. told me tonight
that Mitch the Chipewa
died two nights ago.
“Over-exposure and drink.
39 years old.” “And he had
a bad ticker,” said Gyzmo’s
friend, coming into the Bar
mainly to whisper some stash
of a deal into J.W.’s ear.
The Tenderloin Times says
108 or 109 died homeless
this year, but we know many
more simply could no longer
bear the excellent San Francisco
food fare.
TO THE FINISH LINE
WORDS BY EASY COOL
I’M GONNA LOVE YOU,
TO THE FINISH LINE,
AND THAT WAY,
I’LL KNOW THAT YOU’RE REALLY MINE,
ALL THE TIME,
THAT I MAKE LOVE TO YOU,
TO THE FINISH LINE.
I’LL BE ON MY MARK,
READY TO GO,
I’LL BE ON MY MARK,
READY TO GO
I’LL BE ALL SET,
WHAT MAKES YOU FEEL SAFE?
WHAT OR WHO
PROTECTS YOU?
IF YOU WERE TO TRULY MAKE THIS
CITY A SANCTUARY, WHAT WOULD IT LOOK LIKE?
START A POEM WITH THE LINE:
I FIND SANCTUARY IN…
I MAKE MY SHIELD FROM…
WHEN I CAST A PROTECTION SPELL, I CONJURE…
—
This writing prompt is brought to you by Ghostlines. Ghostlines
is a Bay Area collective of poets,
Ghetto Queen, fried chicken nappy meal eaten, big booty, angry Black Women.
Ignorant, lazy, baby mama, welfare Queen —
Where da little niglet?
Looking like a buffoon —
Which spear chucker da daddy?
A public enemy that needs to be controlled. A criminal prone to violence, unemployable. disrespectful, nappy head, hood RAT fo sure.
Co-founded in 2013 by poets Natasha Huey and Gabriel Cortez, Write Home is a project that facilitates writing workshops and open mics for homeless youth in shelters and service organizations in Berkeley, CA. Through spoken word poetry, youth are able to foster community, express themselves creatively, and develop positive human connections.
Tell me a bit more about Write Home. What is a typical night like holding a writing workshop?
You couldn’t wait
To clear the tents
And what you
Deemed junk off that
Stretch of sidewalk
Known as 17th st.
The pictures of
Our fallen were
Taken down and,
If not for those among
Us who refuse to take
Shit and to have folks
Take our shit,
Lindsay, Tennessee and Jose, three hapless souls who didn’t escape the Fire.
A conflagration, ignited by fear, suspicion and hatred suffocated Lindsay, Tennessee and Jose and bought about their demise
…mainly because Lindsay, Tennessee and Jose …were among the despised.
And the Ghost Ship still lingers after smoldering timbers have dimmed.
The Privileged sparked attitudes sets feelings ablaze, burning animosities that flicker with hatred and scorn.
There will be no concerts for 79 year old Jose Campos found dead in a driveway of the housed…
There will be no Crowdfunding for 27 year old Lindsay McCollum and Eddie Tennessee Tate…the two tasting and feeling the Fire from the muzzle of a deadly weapon.
Homeless at 15
Ain’t got no dream
High school drop out
Sleeping couch to couch
Bus to bus
Life got real tough
The streets took me in
Taught me to win
History of abuse
Kept that shit mute
Homeless has no face
Homeless has no race
If u look at me u wouldn’t have knew
All the struggle I went through
Grabbin on my tummy
They said I’m just a youngin
But I already killed one’my kin
Can’t do it again
And so I’m on the street
Ain’t got Nothing to eat
For me n my growin belly
Livin from telly to telly
Going back to my abuser
What a fuckin loser
My one lame option
Taught me caution
And so u think u know
Like I should reap what I sow
But I was just a kid
I don’t even want to live
No courage to take my life
But it’s too much strife
And so I WOMANed up
Hit the block
Got my money up
N you judge us
My community-but
You wouldn’t stand a day in our shoes
You would sit up here n lose
You ain’t got that skin
That won’t let no one in
You say we want the streets
Like we don’t want a warm bed to sleep
What kinda lies is that
So u could feel good living fat
While poverty surrounds you
Acting like we got the flu
U act like we don’t exist
Desensitized to the realness
We’re homeless cuz we’re poor
Not cuz we don’t want that home door that home floor
So we get that government aid
That stigma y’all mad at cuz y’all paid
Y’all paid for the prisons
Locking up our children
Locking up our daddy’s
Who rode round in caddys
U know who supports them
Our sisters n single women
Taking from OUR households
To profit YOUR stock holds
So that’s where their daddy is
Living wit the fuckin pigs
Now I’m off the streets
Got my food I eat
Got my babies wit me
But I still got pain
My tears fall like rain
My past haunts my dreams
All I got is deep spirituality
Keeping me sane
So I don’t fall again
My life is scarred
It all went too far
Still catching up
Cuz I was out of luck
Fast money was my hobby
Got me lost from my body
It got divided from my soul
For Christmas Santa shoulda sent coal
For all the dirt I did
For years I hid
Embarrassed of the life I lived
And I never said all this before
Let u peak into my soul
And I walk around in vain
Cuz I’m always in pain
But u would never know
By the smile I always show
The queen of laughter
Ain’t happily ever after
My life would make u fear
For your kids to not get near
What I went through
When no one knew
So open your mind
Never know who needs you to be kind
Cuz I needed you
But you never knew.
Two lovers on a crumbling orange moon gazed at Heaven for hours while the sky painted the stars the color of Fog. Two dogs barked their grievances to the world of closed eyes and mouths, knowing glances on the subway that seem more than curious. The gas tank is almost empty, the cops are going to run people off just when one takes a breath and the pavement is gentle.
