HAIKU & TYPEWRITERS–
one of amazing things about moving is how many long forgotten things one finds–(so far i have found five hundred US $–mostly inside books–knew i had squirrled away some–but this much?–)–found this–made when living at the REd Cross Homeless place, on top floor of building few years later condemned by city for all the foul events happened there–even when i wqs there–just after i left, murder of another David, gentle old schizophrenic dark skinned gentleman, who walked the streets carrying either Bible of Koran depending on which came to hand that day–he was killed by ten kids armed with large staves and baseball bats–died in the hosptial–his head beaten in–year or so later–a man died in there–while the people working the floor kept telling his family over phone–oh he is fine–sleeping or busy you know can’t come to the phone–so family finally got fed up–went to see him–and he was lying on bed starting to rot–did make some good friends there, a few who i still see to this day-especially a lot when he is in this area—my poet friend Kirk–still homeless–when good weather comes–hope he is back at Brady Street where he hangs out with some Arab friends who also love poetry–(integral part of culture of Muslim cultures, Arabic peoples, peoples of North Africa–etc.–world over–outside the usa)–one day–ran into him looking prophetic in large beard, broad shoulders, big coat very dramtic looking–( he transformed himself into a Jim Morrison look and sound alike to play him in a theatre piece one summer–)—-reading long “country western poem” he writes on paper i give him along with pens, pencils as he is always losing them–also inside books he finds thrown out–any blank bit , scrap of paper–will do–lot of time i end up doing lot of my writing, rubBEings, same way–so we work together in the streets–my favorite thing he boomed out one day–POETRY IS REALITY”–man was it cold in winter at that red cross place-tHE WINDOWS JUST HANGING OUT, NO STORM WINDOWS–SNOW SEEPing, sweeping in–behind our building, kitty corner on one side of a half hidden parking lot–was a crack dearler–also named David!!–all hours of the night all kinds of weather–he crack heads outside calling in mournful voicess DAVID!! DAVID!! DAVID!!–i would be dreaming and in the dream wondering why someone kept calling my name???–) woke up and discovered all over again no matter how many times always a rude surprise–sure enough–the calling of my name was real!!)— i was the only one there not afraid of mice–so i was the official mice killer (used to have to kill them at horse farm i worked at as they scare the heck out of horses confined in their stalls–)–floods of memories are flowing out of finding this one ancient page–miracle it has survived all these years! but then–so have i–

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