Search Me

Lately, Dylan's been saying, "The sun is beginning to shine on me... but it's not like the sun... that used to be..." Well, there, that's right. For one thing, the Union Gospel Mission is in the way.

The good news is I'm newly housed. The bad news is that that's the backside (not round enough) of the Mission out my window. Or, if I really crane my neck, I can gaze upon the building that was tallest west of the Mississippi back when Smith-Corona meant something besides "what, you don't use computers?" Back when cotton was King and papyrus ruled Middle-Earth.

So one minute you're poor and homeless, next minute you're just as poor as ever, but you're peeling it out for rent in the Old Quarter, the Altstadt. You're living in the perpetual Pioneer Day Festival. Because you desperately need a change in your life and even this is an improvement. Even if it means starving. That much less money per month for food.

As I write this at a Mac in Word 6.0, my words are automatically saved by a stupid - idiotic - moronic- imbecilic - brainless machine every five minutes. Odd, because it takes five minutes to write five words. So - what's the rush?

Are you hearing the poetry? Do I sound ungrateful? Lean in closer...

Opus Take a Number, and Sit Down and Wait!

or, No, Not You! The Poem.

Want to know what's great?

Being homeless a while!

Then you get a section eight!*

It makes you smile...

There's nothing better!

Oh, yeah... it takes a year -

You pray for good weather,

Drink lots of beer...

and stay out of sight,

cause cops got the power

to harass you all night

at any hour

because you exist.

It's the LAW!

[*: Section 8 = Government subsidised housing.]

Let me now prosaically explain all that for the poetically impaired. Yes, you can get subsidized housing, but, depending on your circumstances, you may have to wait anywhere from six months to eighteen for it. Meanwhile you can have no housing at all to speak of, or you will lose your eligibilty. And during the time that you have no housing to speak of, the police will take exception to every breath you take.

Speaking of police harassment: - so I was going out the Speakeasy Cafe the other day, after checking my e-mail (you know how I have to check my e-mail everyday, because I get so much...) Well - I decided to take the back (alley) exit, in order to evade my many beloved but occasionally inconvenient fans. That was my first mistake.

My second mistake was looking homeless. Until recently I have cultivated the look of a graduate student. But I just couldn't pass up the offer of a free army-brown jacket with detachable lining. It isn't really an army jacket but at ten feet you'd think it was, so now I look like a Vietnam period Vet, and those Vets are all homeless, right?

My third mistake was suddenly realising that there was a splinter in my shoe. Right out the door, still in the alley. I should not have done that. That realisation in itself may have been an actual illegal criminal act. I took off my shoe as a result of that realisation, fished out the splinter and tossed it aside.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by two bicycling police-women (I am not making any of this up) asking me questions like "Did you just find a rock in your shoe?" and "Yeah, right, are you sure it wasn't a needle?" and "You know, we find that a lot of drug addicts keep their fixings in their shoes and take them out in alleys. You weren't doing that, were you?" - said one of them, facetiously.

"No" I said.

"Is that so?" they said, not believing me.

Like it mattered whether they believed me or not. I had committed no crime. I had not even been seen doing anything suspicious. Taking something out of one's shoe isn't, in reality, a suspicious act, unless the one doing the suspecting is an SPD officer who doesn't know anymore what's suspicious and what isn't.

Normally the police would not explain their own bizarre behavior. But these women must have been new. After they finished searching me, and after finding no drug paraphenalia on me (because I don't do drugs) they acted embarrassed and apologetic. One of them said "you know, we have to do this, because the businesses around here have been complaining so much, you know..."

I said nothing. I looked at her badge and knew from past experience not to respond. A response gets you a kick in the ribs, and you're black and blue for weeks. (Are you reading this, Norm Stamper? Let me know. Please. I get very little feedback. Thanks.)

She read my silence as disapproval. I said "I don't care what the businesses complain about, I don't do drugs, so why do I have to be detained and searched?"

She then asked me if I was homeless, and when I admitted that I was, she said, "well, see?

that's the problem, isn't it?"

Right.

You, who are reading this - you are next.

Me For Mayor

If you are reading this paper close to the beginning of the month, and if you've been paying attention, you may know that Seattle is about to choose a new mayor.

I myself discovered this fact just last week. Here's how it came to my attention: I was just minding my own business, using the computer to make joke pictures of Tim Harris, our Director. With my back thus turned, he and our production manager were discussing who the Real Change ought to endorse for mayor. They were both certain that there was no way we could endorse either of the two official candidates, so that we would have to endorse a write-in.

Who should we pick? Well, lets see, they thought , who's not here? Why, Dr. Wes can do it! Dr. Wes will do anything! And the next time they spoke to me they said I'd have about 600 words for that wire service article and oh, by the way, we'll be running you for mayor hope you don't mind. Mayor of what? -- I asked, naturally. Of Seattle, they said.

Now I am told that this means I have to have a platform. We're sure you'll come up with something, they say. OK, well then here is my platform. These are my solemn promises to you the Seattle citizen should I be elected mayor.

1. If you have a complaint I will actually meet with you and hear it, once or twice. Maybe. If I feel like it. Lately I've had a cold.

2. I will cash my paychecks promptly and without complaint.

3. I will not maintain a house in a foreign country. Or, if I do, I will not spend much time there.

4. I will create a photocopy of my butt on Mayor's office stationary and send it to the City Attorney's office, and I will include an attachment to the effect that it is the view of the new mayor that the City Attorney's face is not a sidewalk.

5. Just for a hoot, I will propose laws designed to restrict the hours that homeful people can be on downtown streets. When people object, I will say, "Well, they have homes to go to, don't they? So why should we have to look at them?" When people still object I will laugh insanely and lock myself in my office for days.

6. When downtown businesses offer money to get their way with City Hall, I will politely decline it, reminding them that the City's policies are to be determined by its citizens at large and are not on an auction block.

7. Inauguration day: beer and pizza for all!

My slogan: "Let the vegetarians feed first. Then, while they're at it, we'll move in!"

Speaking of moving in, Operation Nightwatch and friends got out at 3am on the 24th for their annual count of Seattle's homeless.

As usual they only counted those who'd passed out in Seattle's "living room".

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I know that the Count is important and supplies a lot of useful information. For example say I want to camp in the Pioneer Square area. Consulting the tables I find that 77 of the 108 street people found there on the night of the 24th were either in public parks or under roads or bridges. Not one was found in a parking garage. So for a quiet restful night's sleep I should head for a parking garage, that's where the privacy is.

But, seriously, I won't be sleeping in Pioneer Square at all, because I don't want to be anywhere that I can be so easily spotted. By Operation Nightwatch, by the police, by thieves, or by anyone else.

When I have slept outdoors, I have always done so outside of the areas that are included in the count, because they get too much traffic, and I have made myself as invisible as possible. So invisible that I don't believe I could ever have been found by anyone who failed to trip over me. And that's the way most of the homeless people I know go about it.

But precisely because we make ourselves invisible we are never counted. The public sees only those who either don't care about their own privacy or who are in no condition to hide themselves effectively.

Duck!

"In a world of Labrador Retrievers, I am a duck!!

(OHHH YES!! OH YYESSS!! A DUCK, I AM, a DUCK, oooooooh yesss!)

When everyone else blows (be-lowws! YEAH! Ha -Ha -Ha!), I suck!!

(Suckity - suckity - SUCKITY -- SUCK! - YEAH)

A single ROtini in a plate of LINguini --

Or a lonely LINguini in a plate of ROtini --

(RotiNIni, TahiniNIni, RotininiNIni -- teehee - knee)

What the hell is I am is what I am?

is what by any other name

is --

(! - extraneous bang!)

-- is I couldn't ever -- possibly --

-- or could I? -- feel so lame.

Phththbbbbtt!!"

-- that was just one of the several fragments of writing found among Dr. Wes Browning's personal effects yesterday, as police collected evidence in the hopes of clearing up the month's long mystery of the missing homeless satirist and would-be poet.

Dr. Browning was a frequent contributor to the Real Change Homeless Newspaper of Seattle, "making a difference in people's lives right now, please leave your message at the beep, and someone will answer your call as soon as possible... "

Dr. Wes Browning, AKA "Copyright Dr. Wes Browning", was best known for his monthly feature entitled "Adventures in Poetry", which pretended to amuse Seattle readers with its supposedly subtle blend of political and poetical humor. He received his doctorate from, of all places, Cornell University, in 1979, for Mathematics. He received his "Copyright" from the StreetLife Gallery, 1994, where he had the audacious gall to make fun of another homeless artist, since deceased, for using the "copyright" symbol far too much.

But Mr. Browning had always laughed out loud at that sort of death, that is to say, the usual sort, the sort that doesn't repeat on you, the sort that doesn't come back and race you around the ping-pong table all night long. In fact, Mr. Browning has laughed at just about everything and everybody. Maybe it's best that we're rid of him. Who needs people like that anyway, always making fun of everybody, never taking anyone seriously! What a creep! Thank God he's missing!

As Anitra Freeman, fellow editor, and oft-time benefactor of Mr. Browning puts it, "He did a wonderful lap-dance. He had a very talented nose. I am not going to tell you what all he could do with his nose. What a probiscus! I'm going to miss his nose. Maybe, just maybe, I'll miss the lap-dances. But definitely his nose."

Think about it. Guys who write poems. Guys who lap-dance. Guys with prodigious noses. Do we need them? I say no. What do you the public say?

"What the hell is I am is what I am?

is what by any other name

is --

(! - extraneous bang!)

-- is I couldn't ever -- possibly --

-- or could I? -- feel so lame.

Phththbbbbtt!!"

Ahhh, ok, I am not in reality a duck. Sheesh.

Star Power

I am happy to report that great new opportunities for lucrative employment for us homeless people are opening up. I'm not talking about day labor, not yard work, not washing dishes, but something specific to the homeless, something we can, in principle, do better than anyone else.

We can play homeless people on TV!

So there I was hanging out at the Real Change dump, getting my ears blasted by 120 decibels of Critters Buggin, trying to get some writing done, trying to forget that I could instead be writing to a mere 60 decibels in a cafe if I just had enough money for a cup of coffee to justify my presence at one, when a call came from Magic Hour Films in Belltown.

They were doing an ad for United Way about programs for homeless youth and needed six older homeless types as extras in the ad. Could the Real Change to send some on over? "Why, sure, we could ask some vendors if they'd be interested. And Dr. Wes is here right now, we're sure he'd do it. Dr. Wes will do anything."

What a great gig! I was paid $10 an hour to wait 4 and a half hours until they needed me. While waiting we got to watch television, drink coffee, and eat sandwiches. They also asked us all to smoke, and to save up our cigarette butts in a cup, for props. No problem!

In fact the only problem that surfaced was that the film company expected that we would all be much more scary looking. As our director Holly said, after lining us up to look at us, "They're all so NICE looking!"

So, OK, maybe homeless people can only play themselves best *in principle*. Actors may still be required to get the stereotype down.

But I tried hard to oblige when it was my turn to be filmed. After all, all I had to do was sit on a step and root through the "props" while staring with annoyance at the hand-held camera as it was walked by, something that comes as natural as breathing. Took three minutes to tape it three times.

I'm going to see if I can't do this more often.

Non Sequitur

or Opus Marcus Sidranus

I'm not going to complain about Sidran,

though he's given me brand new reason:

He now wants to be given authority

to rid parks of rampant illegality

without bothering with due process

as laws and courts are such a mess!

What a truck-load of BS!

We elected him to make them work!

But, no, I'm not going to do it.

I'm not going to say he's a ____.

Instead I'll just change the subject, and talk to myself aimlessly -- as we crazy homeless people are apt to do, scaring the decent folks away from the city parks and sidewalks that belong only to them.

I am asking myself why I do this. Why do I write? After a few cups of reheated coffee, and a half-dozen cigarettes, the reasons slowly return to me.

1. Attracted to the wild lifestyle -- writers really know how to party!

2. To annoy politicians and collect fun hate-mail to show off to my friends.

3. Getting too old to make it as an exotic dancer.

4. But not too old to make it with "writer-groupies."

5. I've always enjoyed working with my fingers.

6. Why not? What's going to happen? That nobody reads it? If I don't write it, how are they going to read it?

7. If I didn't, Tim the Editor God would chase me away from this computer. No more reheated coffee.

8. "Uh, I can't attend your important meeting, I'm on deadline."

9. "I'm a writer" sounds better than "I'm chronically unemployed."

10. I was MADE to sit on my ass all day. This is my essence.

Chopsticks

There is a side of homelessness that is rarely talked about. Social service workers almost never mention it. The homeless themselves will often look away when the subject is broached, unwilling to contemplate the pain that lies within. Even we here at the Real Change have avoided discussing it, for it is such a sensitive issue, one which could easily lead to misunderstanding in our readers if not addressed carefully.

Homelessness, as we all know by now, is generally a symptom of poverty, and thus is experienced in conjunction with poverty's other symptoms. And one of the worst, besides not being able to afford a place to live, is no money to... well... you know... have... f-u-n.

As I sit here in the Real Change office typing these words into this computer I am thinking about all the fun things I could be doing with my life savings of three dollars. Ha! - no I'm not, I'm lying, I'm staring at the screen in a vegetative state, barely tapping each letter out with one finger of my right hand, my chin resting in my left, thinking over

and over of chopsticks.

Chopsticks, or How Bored Am I?...

I want the radio

to play "Blue Suede Shoes"

so I can sing along to it

I consider eating the flowers

on the desk in front of me

just to see if it makes any

difference in my life

in twelve hours or so.

Meanwhile I plan to

go through the thesaurus

looking for all the words

close to meaning "bored"

write them down and then

hide the paper from myself

go look for it find it hide

it go look for it find

it hide it go look for it

until I finally lose it

then I'm going to

write down all the words

I can remember

then I am going to

go back to the thesaurus

and for every one

I missed I am going to punish myself

- bad wes! bad wes! -

Then I am going to feel sorry for myself

- poor wes! poor wes! -

and offer me a piece of pie to make up.

And I'll scream

where have I been

keeping that pie

why haven't I told me about it.

Then I'll start over

but this time I'll use chopsticks.

All of which then calls to mind a conversation with another of our Real Change editors the other day, I'll call her Ruth-A-Fox, who spoke to me of Poetic License. Immediately I had to remind her that I have one. Thus may I steal her ideas with impunity, as I may steal from any and all who cross my path...

No but really what *is* this Poetic License business? Where do I go to get registered? Is it only good during poetry season? If I have one can I claim anything I write as poetry, including the above? Can I write poems in prose zones, without being ticketed?

Taking a guess I'll say yes to that last, and vice versa. Once you are registered (see your local soul) it's always poetry season, wherever you go.

A Side of Maslow

You alert regular readers may have noted that I am now peddling Real Change T-shirts in an ad in this rag. And you may have also troubled yourselves to read the copy of that ad, written by Timothy "Pith Personified" Harris, our director, and wondered what was meant by my "geeking it up with my internet writer buddies."

I'll be getting to that, but first I want to talk about Maslow.

Mention Maslow to the average homeless person and he/she will probably guess you are talking about a city in Poland, or a new side dish available at KFC. He/she will not imagine that Maslow has any connection to his/her life.

Oh but he does. The theories of the psychologist Maslow as taught and *understood* by sociology students have an huge influence on how the homeless are treated by social service workers. The trouble is, they don't understand Maslow's theories. They take his ideas regarding the "hierarchy of needs" (that lower needs, such as for food and security must be met before a person can pursue higher needs) and apply them without any real comprehension. This is where the inane idea comes that all that the homeless can use are food and shelter, *they are not ready for anything more*.

So anyway, here I am, HOMELESS, geeking it up with my internet writer buddies, ACTIVELY pursuing higher needs for friendship, self-esteem and creativity. Gosh, maybe I should go back to school and learn my place in the Socio-Scientific Universe?

A Poem From Hunger

(A Sarcasm In Four Verses)

I have nothing to say!

I haven't eaten all day!

Yeah, I AM a starvin' man!!!

Can't deal with stress nor feet

Till I get me somethin' to eat!

Please!! Feed the starvin' man!!!

I cannot do art

No poem can I start

Until after I'm fed, man!

And I could have nothing to say,

in any self-expressional way,

because I am a poor pathetic starving man.

So what do I do with my internet writer buddies? Well for example, recently the question came up among them, "What is poetry? How is it distinguished from prose?" Actually the question arose three different times on two email lists for writers. Each time I offered variations of this.

Poetry and Prose

by © Dr. Wes Browning

Poetry and Prose:

the oranges and yellows

in a jumbo box of crayons.

There are poetry and prose and prose poetry and poetic prose

and prosish poetry and stranger things with odd names like

rants and chants and marigold and corn.

Lay them all out.

Arrange them by rules

See them change gradually

from left to right.

Blend them.

Then arrange them randomly.

Then start over again,

pretending it's all new.

Ignoring Ignorance

Lets talk about varieties of ignorance this month. We experts classify ignorance in accordance with the answers, in each specific instance, to such questions as, "Is it safe for me to ignore this bit of ignorance? For how long? Might ignoring it be advantageous?" Examples of the advantages of ignoring ignorance abound in poetry.

In fact ALL poems begin with a poet who doesn't know how to say something. And almost all end with a poet who doesn't know how to say it, or even if "it" can be said. Only the difference is that by then he/she has a poem. If everyone knew how to say anything that came to mind there would be no poetry, only speech, and the world would be full of it, much like Congress.

For example, latch onto a feeling, like caring for someone. What color is it? How should I know? What does that even mean? It doesn't matter, I'll just write --

a heartbeat

echoes blue

off the walls

of the shadows

of my time --

a vanished

redbird sings

to the child

we touch

violet

together

Note that the question remains unanswered. I'll call it "Violet is the Color of Caring," and add it to my first chapbook.

On the other hand, there are forms of ignorance that should not be ignored

"If the peasants have no bread, let them eat cake." - a suggestion from Marie Antoinette, shortly before having her head removed from her body by an outraged populace.

"Hygiene centers are unnecessary, they can use the bathrooms at Nordstrom's." - the gist of a suggestion from the Downtown Seattle Association (DSA) last month.

Prompting this open letter to the DSA.

Dear DSA:

Congratulations! I had to reach back over two hundred years to find a comparable expression of monumental ignorance founded upon so much lackadaisical indifference. I hope you fully appreciate your good fortune in happening to oppress a people so profoundly uninterested in violence as the good homeless people of Seattle. They deserve from you at least a sincere "Thank You" for that, should a certain callous insensitivity make a full apology for your stupid remarks impossible. Was that last sentence hard to understand? Tough. Figure it out.

But I bear you no ill will. I understand that even ignorance as grave as yours is a disease not a crime. To show that I care, and to encourage your speedy recovery, I am presenting you with this humble poem.

To Sufferers of "Barely-Affective Disorder"

(Affective: displaying emotion, capable of being touched.)

Cheer up! Help is near!

The State relates to those who can't

socially associate!

In fact:

Our Lawmakers assure

that your disorder

has a cure --

Community Service

Work Shelters

Group Therapy.

-- that and more is their prescription

for making upstanding citizens

from those afflicted

with your condition

OH...

And Oh Yes --

along the way,

don't worry

for your personal state.

You'll get GAU pay,... and , AND

Nordstrom's is open each and every day!

(Or anyway until eight)

PC Wimps

The controversy over hygiene centers is still raging. As always there are people working hard trying to break down stereotypes about the homeless. It seems like everyone wants to tell you its wrong to stereotype, that you should see people as they really are.

I say they're all a bunch of PC wimps! Stereotyping is great! It's fun, it's creative, and educational too. The only thing wrong with the stereotyping I hear about the homeless is that it's mostly dull and unimaginative. Let me show you how it's REALLY done, by a master.

Something Needs To Be Done About Those people

by © Dr. Wes Browning

Something needs to be done about those people.

Everyone knows it.

Look at how they whisper as they pass.

Always something to hide.

Riding in cars with tinted glass.

Buying land out of sight.

If they're not drunks they deal drugs.

If they're not muggers they're murderers.

Like that guy that killed and buried those kids

in his basement.

You know the kind I'm talking about.

They don't hide behind those walls just to stay warm.

You read it every day how they beat their own children.

Something needs to be done about those people.

Like that cannibal guy that tortured and raped and ate those boys

in his flat.

Disgusting.

They're all like that. They're all trouble.

Always something to hide.

Their crimes are in every paper.

The alleged Oklahoma Bomber, the woman who drowned her two sons,

the Lynnwood mutilator, are all just typical examples.

Everyone of them's a criminal of some kind.

Always something to hide.

Why else would they live like that?

In houses, apartments, behind walls.

Something needs to be done.

Those homeful people have really gotten out of hand.

Wasn't that instructive? Try it yourself, pick out a bunch of people that almost never get stereotyped, like stereotypers themselves, or satirists, or people who eat peanut butter. Make up your own brand new original stereotype for them. It's fun and you'll be amazed by what you learn in the process.

You can stereotype individuals, too, only then it isn't usually called that. It's called caricature, a respected traditional art, especially in its graphic form. An illustrative graphic example appears at the top of this column, a rendering by my own hand of myself as a carrot. There is nothing wrong with me for doing that. I am not in reality a carrot, I have merely portrayed myself as one in a drawing.

Speaking of caricature and hygiene centers, what's the deal now with our Mayor? He wants to block the building of hygiene centers at BOTH the Glen Hotel AND 9th and Lenora? Where are we supposed to build them, in his office? Is Norm Rice asking for it? Now that I have a whole page to fill I am going to assume the answer is, thankfully, yes!

Thank you, Mayor Rice!

by © Dr. Wes Browning

The Deadline looms before my pen,

that time of month's come round again.

Today it's worse than 'twere before,

they made my column this much more:

I got to write ten lines more rhyme

then any other preev-yus time.

I just about gave up the chore

When Norm came through for me once more!

He says he's for a hygiene place

as long as it won't take up space.

"That's been the problem all around.

Those people always use up ground-

If only we could shrink them small

to fit inside a box so tall,

[he gestures low to show us all]

I'd put them in my entrance hall!"*

Why Thank You very much Norm Rice

As always helpful, kind, and nice.

[* Not an actual quote from our Mayor. This is *caricature*!]

Bread and Circuses

Q. What is a meta phor, anyway?

A. Metaphors are bready things.

Good metaphors are the sacramental bread for our eucharists of meaning. (Not to be confused with the sermons of those eucharists, which are like similes.) Unpopular metaphors are fruitcakes. Over-extended metaphors are burnt toast. The current metaphor will be a little pile of smoking ashes by the time I am through with it.

From what I have said so far, it should be clear that anyone who would write, and publish, poetry without metaphors would eat peanut butter with a spoon, in public.

The True Poet does not use just any metaphor. Plain white bread will not do. The True Poet is, him- or her- self, a baker. If s/he is going to use stale bread, it will at least be his/her OWN stale bread, not store bought.

Nevertheless, there are one or two excellent off-the-shelf metaphors suitable for use by the Lazy Poet.

The Mother of All Metaphors

Grains barely need us to grow.

They are glorified grasses.

They are facts of life.

Facts that would fill fields forever

if we didn't bother to mow.

But from the field to the table

hands must intervene.

As from the fields to the poet

thoughts must intervene.

"Take this, and eat"

is not an abstract proposition,

it is an offer of humanity,

of hands AND thoughts.

Of course, as that poem illustrates so well by its deficiencies, poetry doth not live by bread alone. It also desires the meat of meaning itself, the cheese of rhyme, and the lettuce, tomato and onion of rhythm.

I will finish this month with a poetic cheeseburger:

A Brief Defense of Free Bread and Circuses

Many people have thought

free bread and circuses brought

the Roman Empire down so low.

And the same also say

that in a similar way

our own will collapse, you know.

They say it's a shame,

and the poor are to blame,

for demanding those shows and dough.

But I know it's a lie,

empires naturally die,

with or without the side-show,

And in dying ooze pus,

namely waste and surplus.

For me? - I`d like my share to go.