People like you would see him as a dirty homeless drunk and he was ok with that. He really was one of them. The best of them, i might add. Not only he lived in the streets, but the streets lived in him. He felt them with his hands, face and feet. His whole body merged daily with metal, dirt, asphalt and everything that unites and separates us in the city. And he wrote about it in raw and cutting verses.

He did it with the papers the streets themselves gave to him. He tried a notebook for a while, but the best ones always came in greasy McDonald’s papers and in the newspapers he used to warm himself at night. Those were the ones people bought the most.

“Poetry is my home”, he once wrote in a sonet. One time, as he walked trough the bohemian streets of an upper class neighborhood, he offered the sonet to a table full of loud talking young men that drank together at a bar. “You guys like poems?”, he said. No answers. He walked to the next table, but heard a male voice shouting from behind.”Hey, poet!”.

He went back. “I’ll give you a twenty for that poem, but I’ll never read it. What do you say?” said the one in a suit, followed by his friend’s laughs. He approached the table again with the poem in his hands and put it by the guy’s wallet. “This one’s for free”, he said.