In my phase I went through of reading the memoirs of poets, I came across Nick Flynn's book Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. Where he works at a homeless shelter in Boston and one of the Homeless people he runs into is his estranged father.
Talk about fate. He wasn't even from Boston nor was his father.
Anyways I don't know I just look at them and I look so hard and think about, how?
Some people can be helped and some cant be, and I am sure that some of the homeless out there can be helped but I also feel like in our culture and in these times, some will never ever find their way.
There is really no way to tell who can and cannot be saved.
Time of course will tell all.
So I never give a coin. I just can't, it is not the help they need. I cant give them what they do need, but I also dont feel like wasting my change on false promises. I'm better off making a wish in a fountain. less money, less drugs, less alcohol. Most times addiction masking mental illness. Eventually making it worse. .. until the inevitable death. The pretend solutions of a homeless shelter, which are good things but it just never really is enough.
The rancid smell of piss, shit and BO. The smells of insanity. NYC SUBWAY. The smell of the deterioration of our cultures need to care, the continuation of the numbness to feeling. People pretending not to see.
these are really unfinished thoughts, things that I think about from time to time, expressed. I am not sure what this exploration of thought will lead to. I guess it is an odd thing to feel for something beyond me. What good can it do? but maybe thats the wrong attitude as well.
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