frustration

February 8, 2008, 9 a.m., Broward Outreach Center homeless shelter in Pompano Beach, Florida.

In academics, every Friday morning at 9, it's poetry time. Residents volunteer to read poetry, sometimes that they've written themselves. It's often powerful stuff, maybe about their heroin addiction or homelessness. I decided I wanted to take part one week. My time came, but as I told them, the truth is I've lived an easy life. The best I could do was write a poem (written in a bar just down the road from my house) about my frustration at the time:

Frustration

(click above to listen)

by Ian

I've been down here more than a year,

friends I have not made.

But at this point all I want,

is just to get laid.

I don't like my job,

it pays about minimum wage.

But I wouldn't even care,

if I could only get laid.

My roommate says I need a hobby,

in the worst kind of way.

But, folks, let's be honest,

all I want's to get laid.

Dammit I'm bored,

every last fucking day.

But you know what might be cool?

If Ian got laid.

What are YOU looking at?

You're probably going home to sex with a babe.

But tonight I'm whacking off,

because I'll never get laid.

Time to throw in the towel,

there's nothing left to say.

But 3 guesses what I want,

I need to get laid.

Some people go bowling,

others have cards to play.

But what would relieve my kind of stress,

is if I could get myself laid.

I drink all alone,

that's how I pray.

But who better to ask,

God, can't you get me laid? 

The next week I was summoned to the administration offices, where the shelter director scolded me. "People are here trying to get their lives together, they don't need to hear that kind of message." 

Oops. But, listen, homeless or not, they LOVED it.  

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