I have just started a busking site that I think you will love. It's called The Sidewalk Performer.
It's going to be my new home base, I'm combining all my content on that one site, so go over and look around at what I put up so far and sign up it's free.
But for all my followers here At The Office I know y'all will love my new secret newsletter that focuses more on literary, philosophy, and religion, it's called Hither Go There.
Also I gotta Buy Me A Coffee and you can go over there and sign up and get free stuff and discounts.
And lastly you may have heard about my fund raiser for my van.
Well, we are half way there, I'm almost out of the hole, please don't forget me. I want to thank everyone so far that has helped me out. I have been able to get medical attention, pay off outstanding bills and pay off most of the old wrecked van. I just need to pay off the remainder of the old van and go shopping for a new used van.
I'm hoping for this soon, I want to be able to travel again to good spots and get my family back up on our feet.
The grey wiry smoke, spindled and writhed, creeping through the darkness, from the small glow of the sputtering bulb, that was failing to light up the room.
And at the tip of the smoke, was a small wormy face, looking slowly, and darting back and forth.
And out of its side came slender feminine ethereal arms, with dainty hands, coming around the front of its head in an O.
Like it was dancing in water, and moving elements in the room.
Then someone opened the door, letting in the light and wind, and in a puff, the smoke exploded, into tiny whispers, as the voices of men entered the room, discussing important things.
Things of business, things of worldly affairs, and they all had watches.
In the hot night, in that dark place, with the bad walls, and no good footing.
The five o'clock shadow knows, and chews his cud, and makes the cigarette bob, and makes the smoke bounce, across the chard leather face, of the old time In-mate, serving the term.
His terrored eyes, with the flames inside, they're screaming. And the fire down below, it saturates the being, because there is no fire like it on earth, he's right down there next to Hell.
And a thousand years is a day, and a day is a thousand years, and he don't know when it'll stop, but unlike the Damned, he knows it will.
He knows he has it better now, then the happiest day he ever had with us. He's just waiting for the consequences to burn off.
He knows, because the judge told him so.
So he rolls another cigarette, screaming, and hopes again today, that someone on the outside will put some money on his books, for a glass of water, or a cool breeze, or a firm ground, or, if God wills it, an early release.
And if you put your head in the clouds, and listen real close, you can hear him screaming, up from the bottom of the ground, wailing for candles, wailing for prayers, wailing for mercy.
Just above my spot on the sidewalk, I was held up in another run down hotel room, and my past was jabbing at me again, as it had everyday since she left.
"I miss my wife, I miss my wife," would spew from my mouth uncontrollably every now and again and at least once a day, for seven years.
Mental scar hiccups, nagging shame, but not as bad as it used to be.
Shortly after she left state and took the kids, I would wander around New Orleans with outbursts of frequent screams and sobbing. I couldn't leave the city, because anywhere else, the police would have taken me away. The fifth of whiskey a day, did little back then. So at night after the fifth, I'd go out drinking.
Even travelers have a home, for me it's cheap hotels that let you smoke. It's a never ending search for a spot on the sidewalk and a hotel that'll let you smoke cigarettes.
Sometimes days and nights sleeping on buses and trains searching.
Sometimes a good spot, but no cheap hotel.
Sometimes cheap hotels, but they wont let you work the spot. So back on the bus to another city, so I can sleep on the bus.
It's a gamble.
In the winter a thick tough suit jacket and fedora, cargo pants and slip on sneakers, not white ever.
In the summer cargo Capris, sandal flip flops and a vest I make out of a jacket coat. After the winter the fedora has usually thinned out enough for the summer heat.
I buy as I go, I don't lug.
One bag is all I need, it holds my rig, and personals.
Working outta the pockets, sleight of hand is the gimmick, for the quick ten minute show, for the curious, or for those with time to kill, ten fifteen minutes, then the hat is passed. Usually the first
show pays just less than the price of a room.
Four or five shows could get me through the day. But if I can, I work all day to forget my problems.
In the states I would prefer to live outta my van. Driving hundreds of miles, from pitch to pitch. Truck stops with cheap private showers in the morning, and a cup of tea.
I come from a long line of sidewalk, shifty eyed losers.
When I'm in a crowd, you can find me, I'm the one who looks like trouble from your grandpa´s past, maybe your great grandpa's past,
maybe worse.
I remember when I was younger, looking at old guys like that downtown, and thinking, That's what I'll be!
Well here I am.
For us it's harder now, private property regulations, and less foot traffic in the states, and the spots in Europe are closing up.
Cops and shops and bad guys, are the setbacks of the job.
Cops and shops, wanna shut you down, and the bad guys, are looking to take what they saw you make.
So here I am, on my back, looking up, and staring at the cheap neon lite on the ceiling of my room.
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