An amoral in the mobile camp

The wooded hills stretch
carrying men & fleas off further
than what a bee carries on its legs

or a beetle in the mud
or an orphan driving to the north
in search of mothers strange.

They stretch in the morning
forth, all shaken off,
like sweat, like any snakeskin

loose & lonely yet. Tents,
alcohol, pauses, & bodies raw
counted by the mathless unhappy

for numbers themselves too high
in the highest heat, highest fair
weather miles distant—here heat, wind there.

Here the dim portrait
of mothers & prostitutes
who catch & fall on strange men

& men who fight with branches
whole, the blood on nature
where hunt the sweating nomads.

A family sleeps on top of itself
while neighbors pass out drunk
while flies and mice live it up

out here on country grass
which smells of popcorn-weeds
for those with, of gasoline if without.


The best documenting I have of my visit to Nashville’s homeless tent-city.


~ by Jeremy on May 31, 2010.

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