I do not know the why or what for. Time passes, slowly sucking the limited life out of my tired and sore presence. I need to move. I am stuck, like a dented and damaged workhorse of a car abandoned on the side of a busy, neglected highway. Forget that I am living amongst those without homes of their own, watching and sponging up the hopelessness they ooze each day. The numbers grow. And here I am.

There was a plan, well laid. I was to exercise the he within to give birth again to the strength that wishes to spread its wings and flap madly. I could not simply stand around or sit by and watch the citizenry each day and expect to make progress. I had to move so he could come forth again.

Plan: Exercise. (Start simple, walk.)

Seemed like a good plan, simple with purpose of complex forethought. Your body becomes weathered and worn when you live outside like an old canoe in the desert. You must ask for it to forgive your sloth and use it again to bear a better man. So I walked. And walked. And walked. It was working. I was felling better about he who was I and he who was within thee. Appetite improved. Scrounging became more successful. Even with the rain and overcast of too often sunless days, I knew I was ready to escape this dilapidated definition of my physical presence. I needed to push harder.

Not too far from this small piece of land some feel comfort in calling a park and others call out of necessity a home is a hill, a steep hill that leads into a very nice neighborhood — is there any other kind of neighborhood the receives ornately colored sidewalks? The hill was steep and without a doubt an exercisable challenge. And to become you must be.

The first time the hill was challenged, death swung its harsh scythe and nearly reaped another soul. Tightness in the chest, lungs screaming for oxygen, I paused. What can you prove if you do not live another day to fight the good fight, especially when it was not fight that took away another day? What do you prove when you die proving nothing? Pause. Paaaaaaause! Eventually the heart slowed its panic and the lungs filled with enough air to get the system working somewhat properly again. Not a quarter way up the hill, it was time to turn around and contemplate a return.

Near the bottom of the steep hill, unnoticed on the sidewalk, was a piece of concrete jutting up. Pushing up and breaking the concrete was a tree root trying to escape its artificially defined allocated space.

The jut brought tears of pain and misery. Stepping on the piece of concrete pointing toward the surviving goodness caused the ankle of exercise to fold like a flimsy school book in an illiterate third world country run by a dictator who believed he was benevolent and kept the curtains closed. Without hesitation, the body collapsed to save the ankle an all of the smelly manness of an outdoor resident came crushing down. The hands went out to keep the concrete from kissing the face coarsely, so the palms had the tender skin ripped back to reveal the rich beauty of a mammal’s flowing vibrant color oxidated. The tears poured, the pain immediate with the promise of more to come.

There was no doubt that to remain a heap piled on the ground, the ankle would swell and stiffen rapidly, and there are places where those without an assigned structure are tolerated, nice neighborhoods not amongst those places, which is why so many are encased by walls. It was imperative that I gained erection and returned to the dark and damp place all men of pending intent felt comfortable. Stroking away the tears, I quickly stood tall, hardening myself for the task ahead.

It took quite a while to limp back to the place where my ilk were accepted, but I did, and here I have been for a month, without exercising. So hopeful and energetic, throbbing with life, and I am barely mobile, moving just enough to sustain. One step forward, two steps back, but that is not the rule, simply a momentary circumstance.

The ankle went from softball to baseball and now sits as a maquette for a ping-pong ball. The body’s power of renewal are quite amazing. After only a month of sitting under a tarp under grey and overcast skies and wet, cold nights, a twisted ankle is almost as good as a slightly abused ankle...clean living probably played a role, but not clean as in shower...when was the last shower...but clean of manipulants,,,you do not get to experience the full of the heal altered...but a painkiller is enticing...clean...clear...goodness...return.

Soon, perhaps in a week, I will begin to challenge the physical presence again. In the meantime, a question must be considered: As I have spent another month with those without whose numbers are growing, what is happening to the men who have tinkered with this economic engine?

This place is being overrun with able bodied men who are complaining about not being able to find work. Usually, the men around here — it is a man’s place — are complaining, but not about the inability to find work, more likely there would have been a complaint about work finding them, but times are a changing. Perhaps there are others like me who have been crushed by the weight of digital imbalances in the ether unpaid and been told to go outside. Something is going on. These men could use a bit of hope, and in me is the answer from he.

Perhaps I need to accept that the world seeks good, that the world is coming to my universe. I would have said that they are coming to my universe because I am here, but that is I as he and he is still in the fire, yet unable to rise. I will say they are here because that is where they belong...and I am here to show them the way...out?

I am here because it is where I belong...but at some point a shower and a couch and a roof would be nice...when it is meant to be, but not by sitting on the worn and thinning rump of goodness will anything change.