Rough Crowd (Beautiful Messes)

The circus that surrounds me
Is endearing.

I am wagon-circled by
The story-faced
Manual laboring
Thick black grease stained
Split skinned, chapped, blister fingered
Bikers, tramps, mechanics, carpenters and fringe dropouts
That have lived to do it
Their way.

Just like me.

There were bumps along the way
And potholes.
Sometimes the road was gravel or mud.

Yet somehow
We all navigated our way here.

We’ve all had to acclimate one way or another.

Some less so.
Others at great lengths.

I love my
Pill popping
Needle dropping
Drag queens, queers
Glittered strippers and whores...

Funny
Tragic
But always a good story.

Urban gypsies that drink as much
As they steal or con
Moving from place to place
Bar to bar
Barstool to barstool.

They are as much you and I
Trying to burden responsibilities
And make a living...
Faced with their own daily reality
Of just trying make it by.

Who am I to judge another?
Would I do things differently
If I was in their shoes?

I also have in my sweet circle
Fellow painters, writers and artists.

Brothers and sisters
Living hard
Surviving on wine and coffee
Cooked on sternos
Seeing the metempirical world
Through
Non-conforming
Sometimes
Nihilistic crazy eyes.

It’s a difficult business model.
I’ve tried it and failed.

But
They continue
To survive and paint and write and perform
And travel and complain
About heat, hardships, rats and roaches.

They look for change in vending machines
Out of habit.

I’m actually jealous sometimes.

But we are under this umbrella of acceptance
And we all continue to break bread on common grounds
And catch up
Turning the ‘real’ world
On it’s head.

We keep each other on our toes
Walking that line...

At places like
Independent book stores
Galleries
Dark cheap taverns
Night clubs
Poetry readings
Beer gardens
The internet
The street
And intimate dinner parties.

We did the time for the crime.

We are divorced...
Several times...
With children.

We have a Masters.

We are punk rock.

We tour with a well-known band.

We are poor and just scraping by.

We are published.

We are self-employed.

If we can’t pick up the tab
We split it.

We know a thing or two
About dignity and humility
And what it takes to survive.

We’re beautiful messes
Facing our golden years together
And we’re driving on this bumpy road
Steering clear of the roadkill
Laughing and talking and doing.
Listening to our stories.

When we fall into our graves

We will not go quietly
I’m sure.

Not a single one of us.