With No Direction Home

“My story ends here. It is a fairly trivial story, and I can only hope that it has been interesting in the same way as a trivial diary is interesting. … At present I do not feel I have seen more than the fringe of poverty.

Still, I can point to one or two things I have definitely learned by being hard up. I shall never again think that all tramps are drunken scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be grateful when I give him a penny, nor be surprised if men out of work lack energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation Army, nor pawn my clothes, nor refuse a handbill, nor enjoy a meal at a smart restaurant. That is a beginning.”

~ George Orwell. Down and Out in Paris and London (1933)



Untitled & Incomplete Song

These streets are my cathedral.
Every pipe’s a sacrament.
Tiny Tim’s been giving that sermon
Since the 7th day of Lent.

Ah, but this morning broke so brilliantly
In my brothers’ aching heads,
Half-asleep on jailhouse floors
Or in these dirty shelter beds.

Let me tell you a story;
Tell you one about the prodigal son
Grieving over lost glory.
He never even saw the gun
That tore his will to love apart.
They should’ve put it in my heart.

The sirens sing good morning
And the speakers overhead —
“Carpe Diem gents it’s time to drag
Your asses out of bed.”

© 2011 Drakakis

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About Drakakis

Street Poet scribbling to your tired, your poor, your huddled masses; the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, the homeless, tempest-tost ...
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