MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230921_WHO_KNOWS.mp3
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Cost of homelessness:
WHO KNOWS?:
Who knows … what’s next, what changes, where we will be at the end of 2023?
Who knows …
I desire an optimistic landing pad for my broken and dark soul, but what I’ll find are the KEEVUS-RATS and the old guard standing by the wall, letting in those chosen few who can submit to the power of the world. The old droghies sit at the table, eating their sausage mick-hoodles and discussing how many Vietcong they killed, so many decades ago. STYG-WARRIORS, talking colonoscopy and tumors and bronchitis and weird scars that none focus on for long.
Who is getting paid to take care of the bodies?
Where are they being taken?
When the old coot dies and the land is dead and the water has turned to blood, who knows, who cares?
I can take my corn scars and slather on the frungo-oils and carry myself about like some slab time king – not looking for the freeway or the hangman’s scaffold. I take my time crossing the byway, unconcerned and irrelevant to the movement of traffic. If I fall? – I hope a kind coyote feeds on my flesh, and then leaves something behind as a marker: “here lay a dead hobo, no one remembers, no one cares, everyone on the run, all refugees in a strange land of madness.
You took notice, HINDO-BOOG, when I stared into the abyss and saw my reflection in YOU. You tracked my actions and kept a journal, and there were too many entries and your pencil got dull.
You took notice when the AIR became metallic and the water smelled of aviation fuel and copper – in this there was a queer acceptance, if only the grey welcoming of those street crabs that can’t be stopped, only shunned.
STLEEG was muttering at the edge of the Clallam Transit Center, talking to his demon master – exchanging ancient signals indecipherable to normies.
KORN-GOL is arguing his cases on the 50 BUS. He is laying out the arguments, appealing to the supreme justice “fuckers … fucking casino … they took it … it’s gone” …
HAMLIN-TOURISTS depart the ship from BOON TOWN to CRUSKY – all the skein-cats change names and await the final banishment.
And it’s … who knows.
Glazed bear spice and tryouts for the stripper bar off of Carlsdale Drive. Hank has his pick of special toys to use, and then sends the rump to the toaster where they can shake their bags and watch the greasy fisherman whack-off.
I checked my baggage with Fritz at the RITZ and built a temple of disgrace outside the chapel. The corporal beat his drum and the 5 cohorts brought up the rear, as the dynasty of lost street people marched on to S’compton and Grinken Town and Old Helbridge AVE. No amount of fury stopped it …
And we don’t know.
No one does.