The Dirtbag Database

For the misfit writing

Dirtbag Dreams

One Year Ago

One year ago, I was lost down low —

Heartbroke, no dough, skipping classes fo’ sho.

Since a younger age, I had dreamed of the road,

But I followed the crowd. I did what I was told.

College never felt right. My fire burned out,

But deep down, I knew what I was about.

I wanted to climb, I wanted to travel, I wanted to roam,

So I packed up my truck and left home.

One Year Later

One year later, I’m up in Alaska beneath northern skies.

I get paid to hike where the eagle flies.

So this poem is for the ones who dream —

If you’re feeling stuck but wanna flow with the stream.

If you’re searching, worn, or burnt at both ends,

It may not feel like it, but it’s where your journey begins.

No road too rough, no plan too extreme —

So tune in. I’ll show you how to chase the dirtbag dream.

How It Starts

What blew my mind — man, it’s wild but true:

Living and working in the parks? It’s easy to do.

Hospitality gigs from the lodge to the grill —

You don’t need much, just drive and will.

I flipped burgers in Zion when I needed a job,

A bed, and something to eat.

Didn’t seem like much,

But it was the key to a life wild and free —

A launchpad to jobs like these.

Now I get paid to hike beneath rainforest canopies.

The corporations are big, but the path stays true:

Xanterra. Aramark. Delaware North — just to name a few.

They’ll give you a bed and a reason to stay —

A home in the wild, and a check on payday.

No Cash? No Problem.

They’ve got structure and rules and a tighter grip.

You might get less love, but it’s an easy trip.

No car? No cash? They don’t mind.

They’re just looking for bodies to show up and try.

They’ll house you cheap and feed you too.

Your only job? Show up and do.

In the grit and grime, there’s gold to be found —

In the voices of those who’ve been around.

Runaways and drifters with stories to share,

Swapping wisdom in the smell of coffee and cigarettes in the air.

They’ll tell you things no book could teach —

About love and loss, and the edge of reach.

You’ll learn wealth ain’t in what you own —

It’s in the people you know, and the places you call home.

The Universal Résumé

You may already have one without even trying —

Shifts at the ice cream parlor, or late nights frying.

Those jobs you were dying to quit?

The first piece of the puzzle to a life that won’t sit.

The universal résumé — it ain’t clean, it ain’t framed.

It’s long hours worked and a hard-earned name.

It ain’t remote — it’s rooted:

In watching the sunrise from behind a hotel desk,

Or the hiss of steam from an espresso press.

In the clatter of dishes and grease-stained shoes,

That’s the gospel of the dirtbag blues.

Working for minimum wage and million-dollar views.

It’s work that doesn’t care where you’ve been —

From the neon glow of a motel inn,

To grease-stained grills and counters worn thin.

It’s in the dirty work the road begins —

Because you’re not above it. You’re in it.

You build a ladder from the inside out.

When you start at the bottom,

You learn what the top is really about.

This résumé is a key — hammered on an old grill,

Forged in hot steam, drive, and will.

A key to unlock doors to the world,

From city blocks to small coast towns —

Jobs that are always hiring, always around.

As long as you’ve got the skill, grit, and nerve,

You have the power to work where you want,

And get what you serve.

Broke Ain’t the End

We’ve been told going broke is the end of the line —

A curse in the land of signs.

But I’ve been down low,

With nothing but rice and beans to eat,

And no choice but to get back on my feet.

What else was I to do — give up and quit?

Say, “This is the end of the road. I’m done. That’s it”?

No.

I found a way back to the grind.

And learned when you’ve got nothing,

gratitude is really easy to find.

Trial by Fire

On the road,

Your thoughts get louder than the semi-trucks.

You’ll get so damn lonely,

You’ll deny your anxiety and open up —

To vagabonds with laugh lines,

Stitching together tales.

To gypsies with eyes like rusted rails.

I’ve spent nights beneath indigo skies,

Where I’ve met prophets with tears inked beneath their eyes.

But it ain’t always the saints that’ll pull you in —

Often it’s the highway hell-bent sinners,

Saying, “Yeah, I’ve been where you’ve been.”

Now, it don’t sound like a dream — broke and alone —

But you’ll find your truth when the comfort is gone.

Through the Windshield

When I saw my life through windshield glass,

I let go of fears I once held fast.

Every hard mile carved out my plan —

A vision I now hold tight

In my weathered hands.

One Of These Days

A wild west track, desert rat rap

This is a Wild West track—

some desert rat rap—

’cause I can’t stand

the way ya-ya-yap.

But don’t get me wrong,

I’m no hater.

Unapologetic—

it’s in my nature.

So take no offense

to my flavor—

just step aboard

the elevator.

You keep telling me to change my ways.

Well, here’s what I’ve got to say:

One of these days I’ll change my ways.

One of these days, I’ll slow my roll.

Hell, I might just smoke a bowl—

’cause inside,

there’s a hole.

One of these days I’ll quit loving so restlessly,

but without someone to hold,

I get reckless, you see.

One of these days I’ll meet a woman so fine,

I won’t be that mosquito

trapped in time—

paralyzed

in her amber eyes.

One of these days,

on a desert highway,

I’ll drop my ego,

let it fade.

No need for it to stay.

Cast my pride

to the roadside—

just I and I

keeping a dream alive.

Some of these days,

I think one of these days

ain’t too far away.

I got debts to pay—

due owed,

miles on miles

to the road.