lawn junkies

Junkie Jesus jams along on his pee wee herman whip. A vast improvement over last week/s tireless tire free ground down stolen beater. New York adorned in greasy denim, steel studded and American flag festooned- a mad max remake for the millennium, bearded and bedeviled. I expect nothing good to come from his proximity. I see junkie jesus’ encampment on the side of the road, arms flapping wildly like a gacked out squeegeeman sans squeegee, haranguing the queens bound motorists at the vandervoort light. The guy clearly needs help, disappears for days or weeks, and is back with a new bike and more madness. Junkie jesus is not alone. Were it just him, there could be a modicum of forgiveness and empathy, but there are a coupla other junkie jerk offs- squirrelly manson and hitching post Malone- so named for their resemblance to the California crazy hippie and the job stopper syled pop star. And they fight and they mug and they light fires and they flee. It/s like there is a little junkie army thieving their way to a stoop side fix. my stoop, nein danke. And yes we are in an opioid epidemic and my nimby liberal self should be more sympathetic to the general lack of well being for fellow man, and yes , as a father of a boy, I do often wonder where and when it goes wrong. And certainly as someone that has done all of the drugs, there is a semblance of sympathy, but I don’t like junkies. And the particular blend of modern primitive street urchin suburban outcast types that can head home to hazelton with one collect phone call, the haight street dog on a string marin county post apocalyptic skin poppers- fuck em. I mean, how do you when a junkie uncle is out of jail? When the windows are broken and the twinkies are gone. So junkie jesus bugs me, as do squirrelly manson and hitching post Malone. I see em skulking around screaming trying to sell stolen shit, as I collect their needles from the planter in front of my house or the the outdoor latrine of a neighbors. We/ve had junkies around here before, but they kept their smack a doodle do’s(and don/ts) to the back of the chevy or a local living room floor. These junkie jokers are of a different ilk, and have currently burned all the bridges, and need to sell things other than their ass, but I don’t want to buy my bike back, nor do I need to watch some reptile banging up on the next door neighbors porch , or behind the metro card machine. Not a big fan of shit dodging my way down the avenue either, I/ve spent time sleeping rough in Amsterdam, watching the weirdness in that darkness before dawn. So get over it old man, these people need help. Times are tough out here. Agreed, but weekly dissertations on the perils of drugs to an impressionable young teen as we navigate the shit and the needles and the street hassle on the long block on the walk to the train is not my strongest material. Hell there is an open air drug market 200 yards away, with every jailbird junkie and short eyes speed freak and closet crack head itching and scratching their way all hours of the day. It/s like a movie, that sucks.