God, I have a friend that sells heroin to feed his daughter.
God, There’s grown men and grown women who hang out at public parks;
Who stay there all day because they have nowhere else to be;
The men talk about pussy and fuck the police, and fuck the mayor, and fuck the senators, and fuck the governors, and fuck the president and vice president, and fuck the speaker of the house, and fuck the whole God damned government, while the women sit and smoke and smoke and smoke and watch the children.
God, what do you think about this? I’m not being sarcastic.
God, my friends and I stand outside carry-outs in the cold, they suck on tobacco sticks and we all tell story after story after story after story, true stories, and we laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh and love each other as brothers.
God, my friends and I watch from that same carry-out as drunk old booze hounds with cartoon-like smiles and big goofy drunken eyes stumble through the parking lot with shacking legs of rubber;
we watch them go into the carry-out, then watch them trip back out of the glass door with a case of beer and a good mood.
God, I live around bars, bars, bars, bars, bars that have beautiful neon signs that are big and gorgeous and blinding.
God, the music coming from the bars vibrate in a way that makes the hearts of men and women sing to the same muffled distant hum.
God, I live among fast food joints that are open until mid night,
Gas stations open until one,
Drug dealer don’t sleep until the sun comes up.
God, I have friends that live on the highway with the road kill and in flop house with fat cock roaches and skin and bone addicts and hungry dogs who walk around hoping for degraded scraps in trash cans.
God, let me talk to you about the flop houses;
Dirty, grimy floor boards,
carpets covered in dog shit,
Someone’s always sleeping on the couch,
Refrigerators leaking and are always empty,
Sinks full of dirty dishes,
Often there’s no running water.
God, I know children who are dirty, shirtless, pant less, shoeless and sockless;
Who run around on concert all day long;
Who are raised by street liter, blacktop pavement and TV;
Who come back to their parents at night, hungry and with bleeding feet stick with shards of glass.
God, what are your thoughts on public housing apartments?
There the people are fed up, some hungry, some high, some drunk, some angry, most are scared, some hang out at the park and talk about fuck the police, but all are screaming alone in their souls;
There are people all across America screaming alone in their souls, and all across America, you can open your bed room windows and hear these screams.
Will you listen?
You can hear my screams too, God.
God, are you screaming?
Have you ever shut your bedroom door, flopped down on your bed and screamed into your pillow?
God, what do you think of my friend, Dylan?
He stumbled into Sam Boone’s apartment, toothless, drunk, high on heroin, no shirt, dirt covered pants, flip flops on his feet and track marks up his arms.
He cried that night to any ear that would listen about suicide, suicide, suicide, homicide, suicide, prison time, prison time, homicide, and, finally, his four homeless children, then he ran back out of the apartment, up the street, fell down, vomited down his chest and arms, got back up and kept on crying and running.
Can Dylan find redemption?
God, I’m trying to speak to you directly.
God, I imagine that over all the world, the Angel’s are crying.
I imagine they’re weeping over every empty belly and empty bowl of ever hungry child.
God, I imagine the angels are cutting artery and vain, bleeding willingly, over the heads of every sad whore that walks the streets
Red eyed and high
Hoping that they’ll wake up the next day, sober, see the dry blood on their foreheads and howl with joy.
I imagine that over every little girl that sees a bottle of pills and is reminded of their mother, they groan.
God, I imagine that above every sad soul who, at night, stumbles home, hopeless and high or drunk, haggard, dragging their feet on pavement with nothing more on their minds then sleep and the next high, the Angels scream the same as I scream and the others scream.
God, I ask you again, are you screaming?
Despite crying Angels and everybody screaming in their souls, I’m thankful.
I’m thankful that there’s mothers that are mothers.
I’m thankful for every father that loves their young.
I’m thankful for all my friends that would feed me if I was hungry.
I’m thankful for every friend I can feed.
I’m thankful for every day my brother wakes up and isn’t in a depression.
I am thankful that I can stand out in the cold with friends and laugh and love and suck on tobacco sticks.
Yes we scream, but I am thankful that we all can scream together.