The Building of a Homeless Culture by Steven McCabe

by Steven McCabe

A memory is feeling a curved length of polished wood static in its


Stars distant and alive except the ones that are dead

Memory swims in a dream montage seeing with a child’s eye

Thought seeing thought

Memory falling between stars turning round and round a leaf

Fell into my hands come from another world

First create refugees

Fleeing self

And the comforts of home

Home cannot provide

Take the small things wrapped in carved lines

And harden them to the touch demanding they be held

In the safety of a home

Within self

Self disappears

Defined too loosely

Or explicitly wrapped in curved lines hardening to the touch

A Matisse canary

A Dufy splash

Even Mondrian felt a brushstroke as tactile

Never drying to the eye

Never on a wall screaming ‘Get Out’

It’s not the painters who beckon the homeless

It’s the blank space

Where a mirror belongs

Mirrors floating in a rowboat

All sizes and shapes

Reflecting sky never drying on the wall

Smile man

Slyly slide girl/ woman

Softshoe lovers cleaning crevices

Washing hair

This is the small slope children holding hands

Leaping into cloud

Banks of cloud

Happily knee-deep

Later seeing

Reflection in the safe place

This is not me

This is not you

Yet we stay

The camel blood dormant in our jangle-tasseled heels

Homeless in our fortress

Like the trucks bringing fruit from Afghanistan

The Building of a Homeless Culture from Hierarchy of Loss – Ekstasis Editions