 Down on the street, I step in dog shit, human shit, unknown shit, broken needles, the broken hearted and get yelled at by broken faces saying, what are you, or girl, are you a boy or a girl, or better still, nice ass, can I tap it, grabbed up with words and eyes and sometimes with hands, clutching at my thrift store garments so I ride the elevator up to my single room occupancy building and walk the bleached corridor past the communal bathroom, past the communal toilet to my ten foot by twelve foot haven and slam the door and it's just like a prison cell except I can smoke and pace and turn the light on and turn the light off when and if I want and can eat canned beans and toast and drink instant coffee with hella sugar and no matter if I could talk to me unless I call them on my cell phone or chat them on my internet thingy and let them come over if they got 50 bucks. It ain't much but it's a life. Most recently I've written a life of Eileen Warnos in poems and I've been it's just a book that I had in me and just had to come out. I've been suppressing it for years because I'm fascinated by Eileen Warnos and interested by Eileen Warnos and the most disturbingly I completely understand her which really disturbs me to relate to a serial killer and get it but I kind of debated whether to read from this material today because of the shootings that we've had and I didn't want to be glorifying gun violence or you know triggering anyone with stories of shooting so I found a few poems from this manuscript that haven't got too much that aren't too focused on the shooting aspect of Eileen Warnos so I'll read those ones. This one's called Stick Up, Edgewater, Florida. Drunk as a skunk when I entered the store don't even know why I did it. $35 from the mini-mart and two packs of new pots allegedly. They carted me off and stuck me in jail with a rough little group of ladies. Years on the streets had taught me the skills to survive and I kept to myself allegedly. Florida love song. Oh Florida, how I fell in love with you bitch. From the minute I entered through your Alabama border on the bench seat of a skylark with the radio on. How I thought I'd arrived in heaven with your tropical flamingo sunsets and your key lime pies. How I explored you from up in Jacksonville all the way down to coral gables, your Cuban cigars, your biker bars. How I could wear Daisy Dukes in a tank top all day, every day Florida, from your barmy mornings to your sultry nights in your motels, mansions and trailer parks from Tallahassee to Miami Beach and your Florida reef beach. Oh your orange blossoms, your alligators, your easy-going ways, your pawn shops and liquor stores from Tampa Bay to the Everglades. I fucking loved you and I vowed I would never ever leave you till my dying day. Velucia County, 1986. The older I got the more the men expected from me. Highway exit ramp hooker and the less they were prepared to pay but I wanted to give less and get paid more. I was tired. In Velucia County I negotiated with a John and he said 200 was too much and he wanted oral kissing and intercourse. I was prepared to do it but asked for 200 and he wanted to pay 100. That's when I pulled the gun on him and the douchebag threw me out of the car and drove straight to the police. They said I tried to extort 200 out of him at gun point but I was just negotiating and he wouldn't play fair the motherfucker. My patience was wearing thin was all. Hooking is the only damn profession where the more experienced you are the less you're worth. That ain't right. The last resort. The last resort by Cabar and Daytona Beach, FLA where Tyra and me were part of the furniture accepted and respected by the other wasted people, the highway people, the people with no mothers and no fathers who've been living on the freeways and byways detached from the white picket fence. Here we found no judgement, no prejudice, no snuddiness. Here we could be ourselves and drink heavy, use drugs, dance on the floor, watch the human bomb explode himself on the outdoor patio and laugh our asses off with the bikers, the dealers, the hookers, the escapies, the disabled and poor, the paroled and probation, the outcasts, the flotsam, the jetsam. Jesus loved the sinners and whores, the poor, homeless and lame. You can look it up in the New Testament. Into this haven this freedom came undercover officers of the so-called law to arrest my ass on suspicion of God knows what, only him above can judge me. When they cuffed me and dragged my ass out on outstanding warrants allegedly, the drinker said, chin up Eileen and stay strong girl. And I smiled or cocky to show him the game was not up, not by a long shot. Thank you.