The Diary of the Dirt Lot

I like the misfits, poets, drunks and fuck ups. And the guys who make constellations out of spray paint on cardboard. I like the people who don’t fit in boxes, the ones who blurt out and stomp away steely mad with a glower and a grin.

I like the people in dirt lots, with untrimmed toe nails and a dog on a rope whom he feeds before he eats. Guys like Tim who carries a guitar and plays it well. His fingers are black with dirt and he hasn’t had a comb to his hair in months but his guitar is shining like the tears glistening in his girls eyes when he plays. She’s going to prison this time.  “I can’t get past the white,” she whispers.

I don’t know about white but I know about things I can’t get past. Honesty is one of them. And there’s so much of it out here between nowhere and nothing where there’s too much time and not enough of it. Out here where the outcasts scurry under their trees at night hiding from the good people.

Time goes on like a backwards clock. Everyone wanting to forget all the time–except me. I want to remember this.

Yea, I like the hippies too with the odd gifts and names and hopes that run down a path only they can see. He keeps extra stuff–batteries, socks, water–just in case someone needs it.

Nothing fits out here but it all makes it own sense as the dust curls up around the scuffed shoes and he smiles and waves at his friend on the bike. “He got hit by a car, but he’s okay.”

Yea, he’s okay in this outliers universe where nothing fits but everything belongs.


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