i wrote this after working and spending a lot of time in vancouver's downtown eastside. there is this strange draw that i used to have to that area which is hard to describe and i intentionally moved from vancouver to get away from it and the ghosts that haunt me in that neighbourhood after so many friends from there have perished.
creatures of habit
i walk down
these putrid streets
littered with used needles
condoms the works
strewn with garbage debris
blood and feces
i see addicts shooting up
chasing the dragon
smoking rock
tweeking nodding
and passing out
on the sidewalk
in doorways
and by dumpsters
in the alleys
they can be
high on down
like a sleepy kitten
or antsy hyper psycho-like
crazy for a fix
or ranting on a coc rampage
dancing like a crack chicken
or flailing their arms
like the wings of
a beheaded rooster
depending on
their drug of use
they get tweeking
poking at dirt and cracks
in the cement incessantly
looking for bits
of delusional drugs
that someone didn't hide
and they will never find
they pick at their skin
obsessively
hallucinatory bugs
crawling underneath
till they have gaping sores
sometimes down to the bone
sometimes they shoot their fix
into these infectious wounds
they get debilitated
can barely stand
barely open their eyes
or function
sometimes they od
and sometimes they die
some get clean
fresh from detox
but back in the hood
back on the beat
they return
like creatures of habit
and i pray that their habit
doesn't turn them
back into creatures
i see beautiful faces
hollowed out skeletal like
haunting looks
from vacant eyes
often their teeth
are rotten or missing
from lack of calcium
side effects
of methadone and heroin
and a sweet junkie diet
and no dental care
they tell me
of uncles dads
and foster fathers
or friends of the family
violating their youth
a childhood of physical
emotional and sexual abuse
being conned
raped and robbed
by exboyfriends
dealers pimps
coc and crack heads
junkies and johns
they tell of friends
disappearing dying od'ing
their faces are gracing
billboards on posters
of missing women
whose lives should
not be disposable
but the list just keeps
growing longer and longer
till finally a pig farmer
is incarcerated
after the list
gets past fifty
drugs are a
means of escape
to camouflage
decades of abuse
scars broken bones hearts
and emotional wounds
drug dealing panhandling
prostituting and stealing
keep their habits maintained
they tell me of life
before the streets
of their families
and their dreams
to finish school
get a degree a career
maybe be a counselor
so they can help someone else
out of this abysmal hell
be a mother to their daughter
get married have a family
some just dream to stay alive
some wish for good health
and some want to die
mothers sisters
grandmothers daughters nieces
cousins friends and lovers
these women are not faceless
these women are us
they deserve our love
our respect and our trust
these women
still have their dreams
how can we help them
. . . hang onto these
by kat kosiancic
this portrait of angel
by martin hatfield
the song
'everybody hurts' by rem
goes well with this