San Jose, smokin 'n thizzin everyday hustlin, watchin the friday whores buzzin 'round Toons tonight. I'm a hobo who sleeps outside closed doors- the decay of western society my appearance of filth rings true traveling a road traversed only by a fated few. Drop-out kids mingle down at the 2nd street light rail station- aloof, separated from the clubbers, they like me live, love, sleep, sell & get high on these unkind streets- them club-flies are just visiting. Baseheads shuffle amongst them, in shadows, making their purchases- hopin that it ain't soap this time 'round. I watch the ruckus in silence. These well-to-do party sluts seem to take over with their eternal pleasure complexes, as if they owned Downtown- until they decide, foolishly, to start beef with us locals. Then and again they must be reminded that they're just visitin. The happiness amongst drunken sadness- this air of celebration seems plastic, cold, and without true spirit, hating their masks of joy, knowing I could never embrace the lie. Stripped of material value, I look on in disgust at their wanton display of seeming prosperity- wishing I could physically erase their self-induced feelings of gaiety. When the liquors been drunk, pussy fucked, egos boosted by the empty Friday victories, all's left is the slow grip of silence, trash floating with the early mornin' breeze. The few remaining drop-in kids depart for their tellies & various sleep spots. And me, exhausted, alone, praying for some miraculous retreat- barely soothed by the cheap malta flowin through my junkie veins, succumbing this spiritual restlessness into dark inebriated sleep. Alas, I too trudge twards my squat- trudging finally to dream the hate and emptiness away, comforted by the blessed arrival of unconsciousness.