Disheveled Hobo:

is the artist that you see walking past you in the street.

doesn’t believe in love, but believes in romance.

can’t always find his socks.

the rule of thumb, and an advocate to go against it.

is the belief that this world could be a better place, and only we can make that happen.

has a wonderful family that he calls his own.

has friends that rival with the best out there.

is invincible and completely destructable.

is the voices you hear in the far away woods, the echoes of thousands of years of angst.

writes about relationships between lovers and friends.

paints in pictures, now un written.

remembers thoughts of unidentified futures.

Ali Murtaza

A Pleasant Mist

The room was dimly lit with candles drooling away the wax onto the rough paper plates, thought of at the last hour. Twenty men and women sat and stood in anticipation. The door swung letting escape a beam of light illuminating the dull grey carpet. A shadow appeared in the light. It grew in size and soon turned into a man six foot in size, with an Armani suit wrapped around him, a thick mustache and a million dollar smile. The office erupted with cheers yelling “surprise” in twenty different tones lacking harmony. There were a few that stretched the word to unnatural extents, while others stopped short, mid word even. The disruption shook me off my desk and landed me on the floor. The room realizing my fall rushed to my support. I steadied myself and went to shake my aging bosses hand. He stood tall with his eyes focused into mine and smiled no different than the generic smile he had given the tens of other offices under his dominion.

We knew his name, his mothers name, definitely his sons name, and he couldn’t remember even one of ours. We knew his hobbies and histories and he couldn’t tell the faces apart. It was part of the corporate life to suck up to your superiors in hopes of making your life better. This was the result for the murdering years in college. This was the life, friends, family; it all became mashed into the work place in some way or another. Many of my friends were my co-workers standing in that very room greeting Mr. Tonekilt. My love life mostly originated in the slim corridors of our departments, on or outside the elevators, and sometimes at the receptionist’s desk. Less than a few days before walking down the corridors I had seen one of the new secretaries scolded by an acquaintance of mine. I stepped in and as a result got a date with her that just happened to land on Tonekilt’s birthday.

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Who or What is Disheveled Hobo?

What is the meaning of Disheveled Hobo. That is a question I’m often asked. So this is a post that will try to recreate what Disheveled Hobo has morphed into over the years. It starts a long time ago when I was in High School as I came across the mystified words. For some reason I was drawn to the sophisticated placement of the word disheveled with the often underestimated word hobo.

Disheveled is a state of being that can result from mental or physical trauma, on a major or a minor level. It’s shabby but not unorganized. Disheveled is a state achieved with curiosity and care. It is Einstein on the days that he spends pondering the universe. It’s the philosopher who doesn’t care for outward appearances because he cares so deeply of his personal mental state. This is Disheveled in Disheveled Hobo.

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