Texas Penal Code Section 48.05

AN ACT relating to prohibitions on camping in a public place and to a political subdivision's designation of property for camping by homeless individuals; creating a criminal offense.

BE IT ENACTED BY THE LEGISLATURE OF THE STATE OF TEXAS:

SECTION 1.  Chapter 48, Penal Code, is amended by adding Section 48.05 to read as follows:

Sec. 48.05.  PROHIBITED CAMPING. (a)  In this section:

(1) "Camp" means to reside temporarily in a place, with shelter.

(2) "Shelter" includes a tent, tarpaulin, lean-to, sleeping bag, bedroll, blankets, or any form of temporary, semipermanent, or permanent shelter, other than clothing or any handheld device, designed to protect a person from weather conditions that threaten personal health and safety.

    (b)  A person commits an offense if the person intentionally or knowingly camps in a public place without the effective consent of the officer or agency having the legal duty or authority to manage the public place.

    (c)  The actor's intent or knowledge may be established through evidence of activities associated with sustaining a living accommodation that are conducted in a public place, including:

            (1)  cooking;

      (2)  making a fire;

      (3)  storing personal belongings for an extended period;

      (4)  digging; or

      (5)  sleeping.

Revelations

by Gary Beck

 
When I was young
I was homeless
and learned the bitter lesson
of alienation, deprivation.
I remember winters
when my coat wasn’t heavy enough
to keep out the cold.
But all the time in school
I heard noble words
that everyone believed,
but didn’t apply to me.
Conditions changed for me
so I was never disadvantaged
in the land of the free
that I painfully discovered
was only for some of us.

Lines

 by Roberta Beach Jacobson

a life heaped
into a shopping cart
with squeaky wheels

America's Finest City

by Marcie Wessels

                     street dividers                                             
the haves                                  the have-nots
            the anything helps sign of our times
downtown a bar on every barred corner
            here to eat there to sleep unsheltered
our storefront our retractable welcome banner
           stones on the sidewalk sleeping rough rougher
never mind the awning gap
          every monday moving day
tent city clean-up waste management trucks

Lines

by Chen-ou Liu

No Exit
at the end of an alley
a cardboard shelter

A penny for your thoughts: a haibun

by Miriam Weinstein

Each afternoon and into early evening, I see the same man alone on the wooden park bench a block from my house. Metal baskets on his bicycle crammed with pieces of clothing, a blue plaid blanket, a worn paperback book.  From a distance he reminds me of Grandpa—something about the slant of his head bent over the newspaper, the curve in his upper back.  Flip-flops on bare feet, frayed sweatshirt, torn jeans—all that protect his body this chilly day.  Thoughts crowd my mind like autumn leaves blown against the foot-bridge. He must be homeless.  Does he spend nights in the old tent tethered at the top of the hill?  Like Grandpa, he sits without calling attention to himself.  I nod in his direction, a token attempt at hello, close as I care to go. Unlike Grandpa, this man perched on a hard plank sculpts futility.  As dusk settles, I pick up my pace to pass him. The busy trill of song birds fills the air.  Does he hear them twittering in trees in search of a spot to roost?  Almost home, I remember the list of chores awaiting me. Before I know it, I have let his plight take flight. 

                    Crowds of crows darken

                    the sky.  Their cries, a hailstorm 

                    of heckles hover. 

Untitled

by petro c. k.

a woman 
in the doorway 
of a bank
yells at ghosts
the ghosts are us

The Voices in Your Head

by Sean Murphy 
 
It didn’t used to be this way,
he sighs, static and unshaven.
 
It didn’t used to be like this,
she thinks. Don’t enable them,
her father used to say.
 
(But where is his father, and
what would I say if my son
stood before me, neither policeman
nor president, but the deferred dream
of better intentions?)
 
Hey brother, can you spare a life?
 
I don’t have any to spare, but
I’ll dig deeper and give ‘til
it hurts you more or less
than it hurts me.
 
It’s always been thus,
God might explain, but
He’s busy with a billion other
street corners, alleys, slums and
the newer tent cities He can
scarcely keep track of.
 
The earth itself is silent.
but what would it say?
All its stages a world
With so many passion plays.
 
So many dispirited shapes,
sleeping under overpasses,
bridges with graffiti singing
songs of pain and witness.
 
Huddled masses, created in their own
image, forever and ever.
World without end
Amen.

Home Photography by Carrie Albert

Lines

by Deborah A. Bennett

seventh month rain -
moving the tent city
from the park at dawn

He Tells Himself

by Darrell Petska

he’ll look up his daughter and explain things
once he gets his head on straight.

he’s not so old he can’t still kick his habit, find work,
and leave the encampments behind.

Jesus is his one true friend.

his coughing fits will lessen now that he smokes
only bummed cigarettes.

the librarian at Central is a little sweet on him.

he could make a fortune writing a book
about the colorful characters he’s come across.

he really ought to get a dog.

the system is too controlling; it saps a guy’s dignity.

he’s not doing too bad, compared to
many far worse off.

every cloud has a silver lining: he’s learned
how to make do with less.

rock bottom is for the hopeless,
and he has no intention of going there.

come Monday, he’ll start putting his life in order.

Lines

by Barrie Levine

street boy

asleep in mylar—

cold moon

City Fixture

by Gary Beck 

The homeless sit
on unrelenting streets
cardboard signs
advertising need.                                                           
Passersby seldom notice
the invisible men
hulking on concrete nests.

Perhaps His Name Is Andy

by Carrie Albert

The navy blue tent, insulated 
by grey blanket, was kept closed,  
said, You can’t see me. 
I'm blind to you. Other tents 
gathered across the street 
on the strip of grassy park 
illumined by sun. The solitary 
one on the pavement lip 
said: I’m not of society. 

I never saw who lived 
inside but was respectfully
afraid. Graffiti on the wall 
behind his tent faintly 
scrawled: hate 
next to a monster face.
After two seasons, 
the tent was taken down, 
insides turned out. 
I snooped when walking by:
a textbook on human physiology,
photos of a family past, 
letters–write sometime huh?
I love you very much, 
signed S, postmarked from Norway 
to Andy, in the south-end of Seattle,
who had a home. 

Then the shopping cart where crows 
gathered to feast on open garbage, 
a wooden chair, soiled pillows, 
one embroidered Family, 
the folded tent, the letters 
were gone 

like a dream 
with no American excuses.

Seeing All

by Lynn White

I can see you.
I’m not blinded 
by your fine words
or the fancy dress 
of your masquerade.

But even the blind can see 
through you.

In time there’ll be pennies for my eyes
but they’re open now and missing nothing.

I know you want to hide from me,
would have me cover my eyes
with my hands
or stitch them up
to make me sightless
as death.
But it won’t work.
I’ll look between the stitches
sneak a peek through my parted fingers.

And even the blinded can see
through you.

Sightlessness 
comes only with death.
Until then
we all can see
you.

A Dream of a Hug

by Tricia Knoll

I wanted to tame the feral gray dog, that one that scampered through the neighborhood streets.The one impossible to approach. The one for whom I carried a leash.  After days of offering enticements, I saw that the man who slept in the plywood shack around the corner from the taco stand had made a truce with the dog, left a bowl of kibble on a ledge, and water. That gray dog accepted him, waited nearby, sometimes let him touch her. The man was a puzzle, a not-very-lush blonde beard, clothing that needed some washing or mending, a thin woman who came to visit him but not often. An aura of kindness that did not speak. One morning I stepped out on the balcony of the motel and he walked up behind me, put his arms around me. I felt like a teenager, soothed by a first touch, brought home. With my eyes closed, I leaned back and he gave a slight pressure to the embrace. Once then perhaps ten more times. When gray dog barked three times, he walked down the stairs. I saw him again with a group of people including the tired woman on the picnic bench near the taco stand. I offered to pay food for them all. He waved me off, gave me a taco and handed one to the dog. 

The Peripatetic Psalmist

by Darrell Petska

Ducks and pigeons are my friends; I shall not be lonely.

They flock to my blanket beside the shining pond.

They lift my spirits; I feed their fervor from the bounty of dumpsters.

How blessed I am, their grateful beaks and bills kissing my hands;
they encircle me, and the police pass by.

Though old and weary, I’m unafraid, for their comfort is unstinting and sure.

Their innocence and joy shall accompany me always
as I dwell in God’s gracious outdoors.

Lines

by Elena Malec

homeless man sleeping under bridge
the north wind blowing
fallen maple leaves

Of Blue Photography by Carrie Albert

Fantasia Number 1

by Gary Beck

All the Billionaires
should each give five million dollars
to set up a foundation
that will provide housing,
support services
to homeless families with children,
homeless veterans,
so those who served the nation,
innocent children
will be saved
from needless suffering.

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

bakery along the tracks . . .
handing out sandwiches
to runaway teens

Lunch with Shawna

by Elizabeth Hykes
 
Shawna’s dark hair stringing past her shoulders
covered her dark brown eyes but for a small opening
through which she blinked then looked away.
“I found a $20.00 bill on the sidewalk yesterday so
I went to the thrift store where I got this outfit
for fifty cents and got a shower at the truck stop so I
could be clean for our lunch today.”
 
The social worker nodded saying,
“you look really nice, Shawna. It makes me feel good
that you wanted to look your best for our time together.”
 
“I saw Jess, Jess, Jess. Yes, yes. I saw Jess. Jessie
saw the halo over my head and said
I see that halo. I see it shining, shining, shining.
My halo was shining, and Jess saw it, so they said.”
 
“Where did you see Jess?”
 
“They was in the shower with me.
They got in for free, free, free
‘cause the cashier didn’t see, see, see,”
Shawna sang making the sign for “see” with
each mention of the word while looking up
at the ceiling.
 
“Is Jess with you now?” asked the social worker.
 
“They took a seat by the window so they could
watch us,” Shawna said pointing to an empty
table by the window. “They will protect me.
They protect me, me, me you see, see, see,”
she signed and sang. Then she crossed herself
three times while chanting “Blessed Jesus,
Blessed Mary, Blessed Father of us all.”
 
The waitress came and said “hello Shawna.
Hello Diana. What will you have today?”
 
“Hamburger on bun for fun, fun, fun, and
French fries with ketchup and peach pie
please” sang Shawna shaking her head
and signing “no,” then laughing.
 
“I’ll have the same, Susan.” Diana smiled
“And coffee for each of us, please.”
 
“Jess says don’t smile. Don’t smile, Diana!
Don’t smile!”
 
“I shouldn’t smile? Does that have something
to do with being safe?” asked Diana. “I know
Jess wants everyone to be safe.”
 
“Wipe that smile off your face, young lady!”
shouted Shawna, standing up.
 
“Shawna, I am not smiling. You are not smiling.
Jess is not smiling. Who needs to stop smiling?”
 
“Nobody,” grumbled Shawna sitting down again
looking all around, then at the table by the window.
 
“Shawna, let’s take three deep breaths together.”
Diana breathed. Shawna reached for Diana’s hand
and they breathed together.
 
After a long silence, Shawna said “safe with Diana,”
and smiled. “Jess says yes, yes, yes. Safe with Diana.”
 
Susan arrived with the order.
 
Shawna ate fast, looking around
her hands and face close to the plate,
totally alone. She gulped her coffee,
then ran her finger over her plate
catching the last drip of Ketchup,
licked her finger and smiled at Diana.
 
Diana smiled back.
 
Shawna stood abruptly shouting
“We got ‘ta go, got ‘ta go now, now, now.
See you Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday,
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Wednesday!
G'bye, Diana, g'bye, g'bye,”
Shawna waved over her shoulder after
holding the door for Jess.

Lyric

by Jeff Burt

What is her body
doubled on itself
stooped from picking
hunger from the fields
stiffening like clay
waiting for the brilliant
sunshine to break it?

What is her body
head perpetually bowed
slunk on a levee
with thoughts and chin
sinking to the concussive
depression of dark water?

What is her body
formed like a question mark
thin as worn thread
once sewn into fabric
now pulled from the cloth
spooling over the river
tatterdemalion adrift
waiting to touch down?

South Loudon Street, First Sustained Frost

 by Sean Murphy 
 

The city speaks. The air shifts in the open and empty spaces—from the stale corners,

exhaust from the cars emanating spent energy; unseeable steam rising from sewage drains;

the day itself succumbing to early evening chill, routines winding down or else waking up.

 

The rows of mismatched houses—in the heat of summer held hostage by the sluggish hate

of heat—keep the people inside uncomfortable, but definitely alive and not in immediate

danger of dying. Of course, this is conditional once the windows turn white with frost.

 

The bus stops, rancid sweatshops during the long and languid days, now provide free

relief from freezing water and pregnant air, which drive the streets in wet, blank waves.

Pennies shriek from filth, cold to the touch, useless in pockets reserved for raw hands.

 

Pigeons pull half-shifts, no accomplices dropping crumbs or trash cans overflowing; sunk

inside themselves behind silenced AC units, asleep beneath the moon that mocks them,

unable to dream away the immutable rules Nature makes, resigned to this sullen rhythm.

 

The well-fed, particularly those born into wealth, remain reluctant to spill any secrets

it’s their duty—and burden—to shelter: there’s too much to lose, so little to share, and

there’s never enough to go around; make them pay, let them pray. This city has spoken.

Lines

by Deborah A. Bennett

the way god says it
in the subway 
on a black guitar 

The criminalization of homelessness: A city ordinance

(a)The following words, terms and phrases, when used in this section shall have the meanings ascribed to them below:

Camp means to reside in or use a public park, street, or other public place for living accommodation purposes; including, but not limited to, activities such as erecting tents or any other structure providing shelter, digging or breaking earth, laying down bedding for the purposes of sleeping, using camp paraphernalia, storing personal belongings, starting a fire, regularly cooking or preparing meals, or living in a parked vehicle.

Camp paraphernalia includes, but is not limited to, tarpaulins, cots, beds, sleeping bags, hammocks or non-city designated cooking facilities and similar equipment.

Public park means all city parks and playgrounds.

Public street means all public streets and highways, public sidewalks, public benches, public parking lots and public parking structures.

Public place means public plazas, including the Civic Center Mall, transportation facilities, schools, attractions, monuments and any improved or unimproved public area.

(b)No person shall camp in any public park, street or place, except when specifically authorized by a permit issued by the city.

(c)A violation of any of the provisions of this section shall be punishable under state law. Each day that a violation of this section continues shall constitute a separate offense.