Rhapsody in Bum
As he strolled through the darkening twilight across the gritty bumscape of south Seattle’s wasteland dockyards, he inhaled deeply upon the cold, salty port air. This ravished his lungs deliciously. His footsteps were a sort of aural companion as he swiftly passed the Jefferson Street Mission, where the rock-bottom-dwellers came to feed, find God and shelter themselves from the northwest winds.
He was awash in a sea of homelessness; he sailed on the backs of despondent transients and parallel-universe-inhabiting lunatics. His favorite was the one that sat outside the Zeitgeist and yelled, “We are the best! We are number one! That is who we are! And that is what we want!”
He considered himself the King of the Bums, a title he wore with bravado and gravitas. He walked amongst his people; he shepherded them; he gazed over his kingdom majestically.
And as dusk finally vanished beyond the sound, he thought of a time when angels spoke to shepherds and shepherds were kings. He thought of Herod, looking out over Judea from his mountain temple; he thought of Achilles, standing defiantly upon the barren Trojan plain, spear in hand.
“My purpose,” he declared to nobody in particular, “is to champion these bums and their bum lifestyle.” He knew that every man needed a purpose. To suffer for that purpose was a man's purest realization of his own nobility. And he was prepared to suffer in the highest -- which made him the noblest of all. Hence his self-proclaimed apotheosis to the wayward man’s throne.
His sneakers were his chariot; his vodka his mead; his quilted cap his crown. First avenue was his empire.
He was awash in a sea of homelessness; he sailed on the backs of despondent transients and parallel-universe-inhabiting lunatics. His favorite was the one that sat outside the Zeitgeist and yelled, “We are the best! We are number one! That is who we are! And that is what we want!”
He considered himself the King of the Bums, a title he wore with bravado and gravitas. He walked amongst his people; he shepherded them; he gazed over his kingdom majestically.
And as dusk finally vanished beyond the sound, he thought of a time when angels spoke to shepherds and shepherds were kings. He thought of Herod, looking out over Judea from his mountain temple; he thought of Achilles, standing defiantly upon the barren Trojan plain, spear in hand.
“My purpose,” he declared to nobody in particular, “is to champion these bums and their bum lifestyle.” He knew that every man needed a purpose. To suffer for that purpose was a man's purest realization of his own nobility. And he was prepared to suffer in the highest -- which made him the noblest of all. Hence his self-proclaimed apotheosis to the wayward man’s throne.
His sneakers were his chariot; his vodka his mead; his quilted cap his crown. First avenue was his empire.
posted by Jeweled Accumulation at 3:49 PM
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