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01/22/10 - (1)
Januarius Nobody
To most of those folks who didn't know him, He was just "that scumbag" or "that rotten bum"; To those few who did, his close associates in vagrancy, By virtue of their sharing the same sources of sustenance — Black, green, or transparent commercial garbage bags, Heaved out onto street curbs, after closing, Or into dumpsters behind local grocery stores — He was Jan, the man with no last name, Who, like an owl or tiger, did his foraging in the dark hours.
To himself, he was an exemplary human being, Someone who possessed the best of the known worlds, A true Renaissance creature, a beast for all seasons, An animal embraced, daily, unconditionally, unequivocally, By the freedoms necessity bestows On those who live fingertips to lips, ask nothing in return, Save the abundant fundamentals of primal survival: Rancid food, polluted water, come-what-may shelter. Indeed, he was Januarius Nobody, the be-all of end-alls.
And so he remained, for three decades, at least, Self-sustaining in the same neighborhood, Maintaining his reputation as a master hunter-gatherer, Harvesting whatever scraps he could track down, Scavenging by the moon, slumbering under the sun, Managing a random dance, to stay alive, Believing that, eventually, the time would arrive When he'd achieve immortality, transcend need completely, Be free to feed off of and sleep amidst the stars.
01/22/10 - (1)
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