So many homeless...

A latticework of streets that merge the crosspaths of the unfortunate, overgrown with the layering of societal runoff, here in LA alone 80,000 homeless according to census, probably more unaccounted for behind dumpsters, in the concrete basin of the LA river, under bridges, on rooftops, on beaches, in parks all scattered like beach umbrellas, cracked out reaching up to unscrew light bulbs under construction walkways to break in half and smoke meth out of or desperate and violent living under a tarmac on skid-row going out at night to rob people for crack; to dam the river for a while and catch a fix, medicate their loneliness and placate the sub-human standards enmeshing them and keeping them trapped like caged animals cloaked in the heat of LA fishing for refundables “canning”—a vagabond vocational term or “spangeing” for spare change, crowding the streets, sprawled out on the boulevard drunk holding cardboard placards like business cards, pushing beaten shopping carts laden with life possessions for the most part listless and complacent like it’s their unavoidable fate, ultimate defeatism, why even bother to get around it. Santa Monica is the patron saint of the homeless and if your going to be living outside might as well go west where it’s warm, like a pilgrimage to a holy site, with services, meals in the park and showers under the pier, sun shining down, lounging on the beach perfect for practitioners of indolence and sloth, the escapists who want only to shun life’s responsibilities and avoid the cumbersome reality of decision making and job security.