Street 16

Dear Street 16
Lonely on the street, damped with sweat
Unwashed, lost, constantly begging
Street 16
Little 16
Younger than me
As I listen to music through a streaming service
He asks for help in a crowded car

Dear Street 16
Scratches and dirt linger on
Dry eyes wander through
Street 16
Tiny 16
Facing constant ignorance
Because they can't walk in your shoe
He treads lightly with a shadow cast behind him

Dear Street 16
Hand held lowly
Head held highly
Street 16
Small 16
Hope in is eyes
But his frown says otherwise
Passing through to the next car

Dear Street 16
I'm sorry
You needed a friend, but I sheltered away
Street 16
Sweet 16
I hope your journey finds you solace
In this shitty universe where hands no longer shake
One day you'll (we'll) breathe easily again

An American Retard

A dreamer of the 50s, a prospector of business, an ugly son of a greedy bitch. America was introduced to the Donald many years ago when he was known to bang Barbie broads and go bankrupt, only to bounce back with more cash flow and ambition for floppy, aging wannabe Hulk Hogan hair. For a long time, we viewed this individual as a man with a lot of money flowing in from cringe-worthy investments and ludicrous shows where his infamous catchphrase was adopted from. But now this said phrase has entered the White House, where he's hellbent on using executive orders and criticism to get through the media's attention and his dying confidence of a white man in this country taking advantage of the disadvantages. Now he's used to being bashed from half the country to the point where he just raises his chin and barks back, like a depressed child overcoming the barriers of society, but in an extremely negative way. He's made fun of minorities and disabled people, pushed for the U.S.-Mexico wall to be developed, threatened to end Obamacare, and so many fucking others that it gets tiring - and it hasn't been a year yet into his presidency.
Do you feel proud, America? Do you feel proud to follow in the leadership of an American retard? A man who bleeds hate and fakes a smile in front of foreigners and his fellow citizens, as he continues to come up with idiotic solutions to heartbreaking problems that stem in this country? A man that turns away other people in need of shelter and love from a country in great distress? A man who hates his wife to the point where she clearly doesn't want to be seen in public with him? A man who said that life wasn't easy for him, even after a "small loan" of a million dollars? A man who looks like an obese chicken dipped in Cheetos? Do you feel proud, America?
Every week it seems to be something else stemming from this troubling presidency, whether it be criticism of his actions, plans for a wall and other dull deeds, ranks of his reign of terror, and attention-grabbing press as the media continues to follow him as he rains horror onto the tainted soils of this country. It's a never-ending nightmare for us intelligent Americans who know the pros and cons of choosing between a giant douche and a turd sandwich. But I still can't comprehend how it all came down to this cocky creature, fueled with avarice and power and no compassion and consideration for the general public. It was moronic to say the least when it was first announced he would run for office. Then it didn't stop, even after the sexist and racist attitudes, bashing against the foreign countries and disabled, and his unconventional ways to speak to us by tweeting like an overdramatic cunt in high school. He likes to point the finger with all caps on, while also acting like a good patriot in times of remembrance and prayers to past and present tragedies - something a high school cunt would do in order to get attention. Donald Dump's fantasy consists of a white America equipped with all the privileged attributes one could think of: from grabbing girls by the pussy with no consequence, to being a hypocrite on a well-known basis, to overall bans to anyone not white, and for old men to not have wigs but Cheeto-infested silky hair to represent their high well-deserved levels of prestige. And of course, complete reduction of care for human rights and absolute disregard for all women. Donald's Dumpland, his dream that would be made possible by the branches and simpleminded supporters who continue to blindly follow in his leadership, in hopes of a great America.
Do you feel great, America? Do you?

Smoke Among the Baby's Lungs

Midst of summer, the heat intensifies, the craziness never stops. But within this chapter lies a tale of retardation and great question.
Listening to a soundtrack while riding the train back toward home, I noticed that a thug had made his way into the car via the emergency exit. These goons are either soliciting, stealing goods, and/or just making an impatient transfer. This dude, dressed in a wife-beater and grotesque tats scribbled on his face, decided it was the good day to sell cleaning products on the train. After being denied by those he asked, he sat down a few seats away from me and began to ignite a blunt - a rather rough-looking one, too, I might add. The smoke never bothers me, but on the train it most certainly does, especially when a child can literally smell it from a few feet away. The child, no older than three, was shielded by his worried Hispanic mother, pouting and looking away from the careless fiend. Me and a neighboring chick with luggage got up at the same time and switched over the car, wanting to just get the hell away from this disturbed bastard. What stuck in my head was the young lad who had to experience such dirt first-hand upon public transportation at such an innocent period of his life. The image was engraved into my thoughts, such disappointment, such anger - I wonder why I didn't say anything. Maybe it's because of the fact that I live in such a bloody city that even the slightest lights of heroism are masked by the overwhelming fear of being shot by a piece of shit who probably can't swing a decent punch. Fist fights are one thing, but getting shot is an entirely different action. But would it be worth it, if I were to say something in order for the kid to ride in peace?
I mean, come on, what else could I have done?

Jake, 18

The routine of asking for spare change is a common sight and commitment made famous by the beggars of the world. But what the world seems to ignore is that fact that anyone can be a beggar, any age. Today I encountered my youngest beggar, en route to my class downtown. Age 18 and clearly in a rut, Jake was walking up the aisle asking for a spare dollar to get on the next bus to continue his day. I thought of giving him the spare dollar, but having no job lowers my moral values in sympathy and sharing for the other humans. And I could think to myself was "Damn" at the sight of Jake, someone who was younger than me and heading down a nasty path in life. What was more bizarre was the chuckling from his fiend of a friend, who sat and witnessed Jake's struggle for obtaining a single dollar. This friend was light years into the life of a wandering beggar, with frequent infatuations with the darker sides of life on earth: his clothes possessed that aging green only street beggars can create, had tattoos on his face, and wielded a charismatic smirk, knowing that life is a bitch and there's not much else to do but to smile and keep going.
Jake switched over the other train car after failing to get one dollar from our current car; it didn't take him long to return, retreating to his lowlife of a mate. Maybe this was a foreshadow to how his life would function, by asking for money until he's reached the point where his friends are his final resort, where there's no where else to turn, even the trains themselves.
I named him Jake because that's what the friend had called him.

Ashley and Bean Flicking

It all had happened so awkwardly and yet unforeseen, thinking that she was merely another homeless passenger on the CTA. She was of middle age - close to 55 I would assume - with dark complexity and soiled clothing with stains and tears beginning to appear at the bottom of her jeans. A blanket gave her warm, settling nicely upon the two seats she took for herself. To me, this was typical homelessness aboard the public transit, so I paid zero attention to her.
That was when I had gotten up to get off at my stop, and I noticed movement beneath her blanket. This movement occurred around her beaver, and this assumption of mine was confirmed by her facial reactions to the tending of her axe wound. How could I not look away? It's not everyday you get to see someone pleasure themselves in public. So I stared with a frown, curious as to what compelled or motivated her to get to work. Her eyes were shut tight, lips trembling with passion. Then she opened up and immediately laid her vision on me, halting her bean flicking process with a face of wonder and contempt, as if I had just interrupted her. I chuckled and dipped, attempting to avoid any further contact with Ashley and her bean flicking activities.
I named her Ashley because she reminds me of a one-night-stand I had some time ago.

Piss

It's widespread, it's noticeable, it's loud, and it's nasty. It's on the bus and train, almost anywhere you go, at least in my experience. On the seats, on the train car's ground, and, oddly enough, in the air where our nostrils are triggered by the overwhelming scent of piss.
I'm not one to point fingers (which is such bullshit), but the scent is delivered, predominantly, from homeless wanderers to drunken fiends too twisted to walk in a straight line. Some stumble upon the moving CTA property and fire away, while others lay almost unconsciously and bring their dream-like phenomenon of peeing into a reality, drenching their clothes and the space around them. However, it seems oblivious to them when it occurs; but not for the other riders, expressing grand frowns and contempt as they were forced to go with their business, no inclination to inform any of the employees.
Could you imagine the horror the employees must endure when it comes to this? High maintenance and lividness would be the primary factors, but one can't help but wonder on who may have done this, and what was the background tale to support it? I could imagine them exclaiming expletives as they cleaned the muck up, not as curious investigators who inspect up close and personal. "Hey Jimmy, what kind of geek do ya think might've laid some waste here?" and to which the other would potentially reply with, "Who friggin' knows, Scooter! Probably another wasted mutt from Wrigleyville!"
There's not much else to be said here, other than the fact that it strangely seems normal and pretty common to once-and-a-while encounter this fucked phenomenon. There's no escaping it. Expect it. And as a resident from Desolation Row, I say bring some Febreze and don't hesitate on using it. Come on, it'll help everybody.

Inception

This was an assignment for a writing course that my instructor, Don, wanted to see. Just a little heads up; extra context.

Throughout my lifetime, I’ve had a strange inclination to look at strangers a certain way: give them a name I’ve known before and fix up a little tale to go with them. This started when I was merely a child who would be playing Star Wars at the shopping mall or flipping off a fellow student just for the hell of it. “Never talk to strangers,” dear old Mommy used to tell me. In lieu of going against this, I decided to somewhat mock these strangers as characters I’ll just read about but never have the chance to interact with them., almost like a character you see on-screen or in a book. Obi-Wan, Neo, Santa Claus, Limp Bizkit, Jay-Z, Mr. Rogers, it goes on and on forever until I need to discover more characters for my mental arsenal.

Some years later I discovered Bob Dylan, and with this discovery came the song Desolation Row, a rather underappreciated song on his Highway 61 Revisited album that runs for eleven minutes containing poetry based on folks he sees at this particular place and tells us about their stories, while giving them well-known names to replace the real ones, such as Cinderella, Ezra Pound, Robin Hood, Joan of Arc, etc. The song had clung onto me like a sticker you didn’t want to take off. The lyrics, guitar, harmonica, and the length were what turned me on, but I really went for that orgasm when I paid attention to the surrealistic words that Bob sang aloud. This song was beginning to ring memories from weird experiences I encountered on the train.


One day going home, some jerk-off in casual clothing and shitty facial hair got my attention and gestured for me to take my earbuds off. I did so, and he said, almost calmly with a little hesitation but with much confidence behind the voice, “I gotta lay this on someone, and I can’t keep this bottled up.”

     “Uh, okay?” I replied, trying not to sound like a dick to this turdbag.

     “I’m headed to the casino right now to do something illegal, but it kind of isn’t really illegal; I’ve done it before and nothing has happened.”

     “Okay.” I tried to put my earbuds back in, but he stopped me with a hand gesture as if I was slave and him my master.

     “I just needed to tell someone that, because I’m gonna kill myself if I don’t tell anyone. Okay?”

     “Okay?”

     “Thank you. Don’t tell anyone. Thank you.” He retreated into a sleep-like position, taking up the two seats to occupy his lousy soul.

I didn’t know what the hell to do. What was I to tell the pigs about my occurrence? Would they arrest me, too? I didn’t like to think about the pigs, so I thought about writing about it. Only back then, I was scared to, like what if this lonely bastard had read this and went on a manhunt for me?

Now I simply couldn’t give a damn. Let the sucker try to track me down, that loser.

But I combined the love of the song with the confusion of the situation to form a little bubble of inspiration that grew and grew until I finally had the drive to put up a blog. I had started it last year around summertime, and the idea was simple: recount experiences with strange people or strange situations, perhaps with a slight Gonzo twist to it. I wrote my past encounters with crying girls, weridoes and dopers on the seats, stenches and sights too horrendous for the naked eye, and narratives. At this point, I have almost 50 posts on the blog, and I’m shocked to see that people are still reading it. Or it’s probably bots – if that’s the case, say goodbye to my confidence.

But with the blog I always managed to be as honest as possible, even sometimes giving names to these encounters with someone from my past or a well-known figure to attach the memory with.

That was how the blog had come into fruition, a simple love for a song that was mixed yet another awkward time whilst riding the CTA. And the shit continues till this day, for I still ride the public trans to get to where I need to go. My encounters still exist nowadays, and there’s always room for more entries.