In far flung countries begging is a custom, our developing, American
definition, pieces of indigenous lands unless you have no land on which to
live.
In the U.S., in the big cities and maybe in rural areas, too, homeless folks beg for spare change, or
barter their work for food, etc.—on street corners, under viaducts, wherever
they can find empty space they occupy, squatters on public domains, their
weapons are signs of begging, only we are a little embarrassed by the term, and
sad faces,
I feel so sad for them, knowing I could just as easily be there
myself/entertaining the people in cars, now entertaining could equal begging,
American-style.
Immigrant workers stand on curbs or at busy intersections, in clumps,
they ain’t no chumps, they be just begging for a job today—survival
worries—take it one day at a time—that’s all the energy any of us has, what we
have now, not so fine, and furiously fine.
I’ve begged in Berkeley in the Mid-Sixties—easier then, because I was
selling the Berkeley Barb, the daily
news of dissent.
Now I’m begging for people to buy my poetry, or my leather
products—cut off/cut off unemployment benefits due to a label given to me by
the State—misconduct—it’s done, not filling a monthly quota is misconduct,
rather hostile & abrupt, scheduling problems, targeted by the political
system of an entity whose stated aim is to deal ethically, they hide beyond the
wall, wrapped in gauze of serving the needs of the Mentally Ill/no surprise.
What about my needs for dignity and equity and justice? I also have a Mental Health diagnosis, don’t
I count? Can’t learn anything when my
boss threatened to kill me in her multiple-personality way, PTSD re triggered,
I’m awash in symptoms. Was this my fate
or my Karma?
So, now, no coins jingling in my pockets, or bills in my wallet,
unless I sell my poetry, you see, by begging, American-style, luckily as a poet
I have my craft, my greatest earthly joy/my products are me. It’s a trip when you’ve had a job all your
life, or most of it—now this prop has split, gone.
Selling my poetic discourse under a tree.
But what’s up with me? Lots of
black crow feathers in my mouth—tastes like one sick bird, lots of bending
& stooping and the humble pie is rancid vomit.
Everyone’s got to beg someday, so don’t be too proud to beg, OK? Good to give away all you got, good to
receive as well.
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