broken hand, concussion, black eye.
Flash Ficiton Competition Winner, London 2009
Unbound, 2009.
uYELLnews
uYELLnow
uYELLout
uYELLnews [official issue 1]
uYELLnews (official issue 2)
Words: YES (readings)
Thursday, 3 December 2009
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Meditation
The skin of his knuckles split obediently between bone and brick. His forehead is fevered with rage in stark contrast to the cool stone it is grinding against. His arms are the pistons of a locomotive's combustion engine, as he pounds away against the brick wall that he knows will never be deteriorated by his punishment. His hands, however, have already begun to. But he doesn't care. The pain is what he came here for. To this darkened back alley in the wrong part of town. The same part of town everyone visits to do their own personal dirty deeds. Among hookers, dealers, hustlers, certifiable madmen, and street urchins he feels noble and downright spiritual.
"Everything you need to be happy is within yourself." The psychiatrist at the Mental Hospital had said. This new breed of white suburban bodhisattvas sickened him. He hated to watch centuries of eastern religion and philosophy co-opted for American self-help books. And now here he was, co-opting it for his own purposes. This thought only made him angrier. Red trickles down the wall; the one thing in this world that he knows is irrevocably his.
So he pounds away on nigh invulnerable brick, knowing that the only one he has to blame is himself. For all the things he rued about the state of his psyche, no one could ever accuse him of being in denial. Quite the opposite is true, as he plants his feet in the cement, face to face with this city, trying to make it all go away, one feeble attack at a time. He watches his blood trickle down the wall, and through constant jolts of painful release, sees the only thing is this world that no one can take away from him. This blood is his.
He leaves pieces of himself behind, as he turns and walks away. Dogs judge territory by less than this. His hands are first bruised, then bloodied and finally broken: Bruised as his ego. Broken like the spell his rage had cast. He walks into the open street a humbled man, shoulders sunken with fatigue, chest heaving impassioned puffs into cold air.
"Everything you need to be happy is within yourself." The psychiatrist at the Mental Hospital had said. This new breed of white suburban bodhisattvas sickened him. He hated to watch centuries of eastern religion and philosophy co-opted for American self-help books. And now here he was, co-opting it for his own purposes. This thought only made him angrier. Red trickles down the wall; the one thing in this world that he knows is irrevocably his.
So he pounds away on nigh invulnerable brick, knowing that the only one he has to blame is himself. For all the things he rued about the state of his psyche, no one could ever accuse him of being in denial. Quite the opposite is true, as he plants his feet in the cement, face to face with this city, trying to make it all go away, one feeble attack at a time. He watches his blood trickle down the wall, and through constant jolts of painful release, sees the only thing is this world that no one can take away from him. This blood is his.
He leaves pieces of himself behind, as he turns and walks away. Dogs judge territory by less than this. His hands are first bruised, then bloodied and finally broken: Bruised as his ego. Broken like the spell his rage had cast. He walks into the open street a humbled man, shoulders sunken with fatigue, chest heaving impassioned puffs into cold air.
PULSE
Those naughty words I said,
that were whispered and reverberated inside your head
(and continued in my absence,
making you as drunk, dirty, and free as good absinthe),
simply must not be forgotten
until the fruit of carnal knowledge is fermented and rotted.
Naughty words were uttered with fingers to flesh,
while my lips were monitoring the pulse on your neck.
(Your heartbeat shed light on your quivering needs
as my hand moved slowly up your leg from your knee)
With ecstasy you understood my hands in the dark
As i cut into your flesh without leaving a mark.
...
that were whispered and reverberated inside your head
(and continued in my absence,
making you as drunk, dirty, and free as good absinthe),
simply must not be forgotten
until the fruit of carnal knowledge is fermented and rotted.
Naughty words were uttered with fingers to flesh,
while my lips were monitoring the pulse on your neck.
(Your heartbeat shed light on your quivering needs
as my hand moved slowly up your leg from your knee)
With ecstasy you understood my hands in the dark
As i cut into your flesh without leaving a mark.
...
The Lover of You : The Surgeon in Me
If I had died, just to be by your side
would you not still weep in the wake of my demise?
And if I had initially lied just to be by your side,
would you still lay awake at night with bloodshot eyes?
What if I had split open your ribs, in search of your heart
with a surgeon's attention to detail and art...?
Would you still lay, splayed open, and say:
"Don't you ever... ever go away."
No. You'd just scream and scream
until your sure I know exactly what you mean.
And in an obscene dream,
you'd see me and believe, finally.
That it isn't me that has ever been your greatest need
but something less attainable
but something you are doomed to find
as soon as you are stable.
would you not still weep in the wake of my demise?
And if I had initially lied just to be by your side,
would you still lay awake at night with bloodshot eyes?
What if I had split open your ribs, in search of your heart
with a surgeon's attention to detail and art...?
Would you still lay, splayed open, and say:
"Don't you ever... ever go away."
No. You'd just scream and scream
until your sure I know exactly what you mean.
And in an obscene dream,
you'd see me and believe, finally.
That it isn't me that has ever been your greatest need
but something less attainable
but something you are doomed to find
as soon as you are stable.
Dear Kind Stranger
First of all I want to thank you for helping me out of the middle of the street today. I fall down a lot. I know you thought I was drunk or doped up, so thank you for giving me your email anyway.
Things haven’t been the same lately, you see. The accident was almost year ago. Now that the superficial wounds have healed I keep thinking about how ordinary that day was, how completely normal that morning had been. I’ve been over it a million times and nowadays the accident itself seems just as ordinary, completely normal. I was a waitress late for a shift and I merged wrong. It really is that simple. Now everything has changed.
The way I walk: I saw you notice the drag of my left foot, my swagger...my limp. That’s because I’m too short and I used to put the seatbelt behind my back so it wouldn’t irritate my neck. When I hit the other car head on, my upper body was thrown forward hard enough to severely dislocate my hips and crack my pelvis under the seatbelt’s restraint. I’d be dead otherwise, so I guess I should be grateful but I fall down in front of strangers more often than I’d like to admit. For me everyday is that same old dream of showing up to school naked. I only tell you this so you can understand: Blending in is not an option for me.
The way I talk: I know you couldn’t understand me, when I tried to explain to you about the accident. My words get lost between my brain and tongue. I know you didn’t get it when I told you I was sober. That I just got in an accident is all. I just hit the wheel which caused what’s been described to me as a ‘partial disconnect’ that occurred in my speech centers. Doctors say I’m lucky I took the impact with my upper forehead, the only part of it that could withstand it, apparently. But I’m telling you now, that my cognitive abilities are unchanged. It’s just this damn machine I live in is broken and the mechanics have already fixed as much they are able.
I’m ashamed to admit how long this email has taken me to write, but please don’t worry yourself with these things. For it is in this way that I can be the most normal. So I’m writing you now to thank you: for leaving me my dignity when you walked away smiling. For now, I can only assume you’ve given me your real address. And even if this email never finds you, thank you for the subtlety of your rejection.
With no reason for restraint,
Mona.
Things haven’t been the same lately, you see. The accident was almost year ago. Now that the superficial wounds have healed I keep thinking about how ordinary that day was, how completely normal that morning had been. I’ve been over it a million times and nowadays the accident itself seems just as ordinary, completely normal. I was a waitress late for a shift and I merged wrong. It really is that simple. Now everything has changed.
The way I walk: I saw you notice the drag of my left foot, my swagger...my limp. That’s because I’m too short and I used to put the seatbelt behind my back so it wouldn’t irritate my neck. When I hit the other car head on, my upper body was thrown forward hard enough to severely dislocate my hips and crack my pelvis under the seatbelt’s restraint. I’d be dead otherwise, so I guess I should be grateful but I fall down in front of strangers more often than I’d like to admit. For me everyday is that same old dream of showing up to school naked. I only tell you this so you can understand: Blending in is not an option for me.
The way I talk: I know you couldn’t understand me, when I tried to explain to you about the accident. My words get lost between my brain and tongue. I know you didn’t get it when I told you I was sober. That I just got in an accident is all. I just hit the wheel which caused what’s been described to me as a ‘partial disconnect’ that occurred in my speech centers. Doctors say I’m lucky I took the impact with my upper forehead, the only part of it that could withstand it, apparently. But I’m telling you now, that my cognitive abilities are unchanged. It’s just this damn machine I live in is broken and the mechanics have already fixed as much they are able.
I’m ashamed to admit how long this email has taken me to write, but please don’t worry yourself with these things. For it is in this way that I can be the most normal. So I’m writing you now to thank you: for leaving me my dignity when you walked away smiling. For now, I can only assume you’ve given me your real address. And even if this email never finds you, thank you for the subtlety of your rejection.
With no reason for restraint,
Mona.
[with bloodied knuckles] He writes it down.
and she said “flesh” as the whole world blurred into her.
and you screamed but silently.
and burst but non-violently
but it wasn’t her words that necessarily tore you apart
it was the weight of the silence that you waded in afterward
that you waited in wordlessly as she simply stared coldly forward blowing smoke
you haven’t got a clue.
So whisper “But if not you... then who?”
but your words come unstuck from each other as if they hadn’t any glue
and the feeling in your guts is wretched but not new when
you hold your breath and he puts down the pen.
and you screamed but silently.
and burst but non-violently
but it wasn’t her words that necessarily tore you apart
it was the weight of the silence that you waded in afterward
that you waited in wordlessly as she simply stared coldly forward blowing smoke
you haven’t got a clue.
So whisper “But if not you... then who?”
but your words come unstuck from each other as if they hadn’t any glue
and the feeling in your guts is wretched but not new when
you hold your breath and he puts down the pen.
Hospital.
What do you do when
Rhetoric. Disfunction. Congenial guises of sterility in actual bio-wasted stupor...
Will i be the same person forever?
Nuero-bomb drops. Isnt?
Crumpled tissue, hypodermic shame, spectacle spectacle.
your coat supposed to be whiter?
Actual tangible fog injected
Curtain curtain. Draw closed the curtain.
Guttural moans through not sterile walls
Rocking back and forth and
back and forth and
Have you been drinking?
I don’t drink.
Have you been thinking about hurting yourself.
I don’t think.
Calm down fuck you don’t swear i don’t care
Crumpled boy, not sterile, not sane, leaking. Leaking out.
Through holes in eyes and one in arm
Not to not to
back and forth and
Not to regain asylum in the insane asylum
Please, not to.
back and forth and
Security past curtain,
insecurity
through haze of whatthafuckaxanol or
Don’t keep their voices down.
triptandfellanine or
And rocking back and forth and
Innappropryl or
back and forth and
Don’t keep their voices down.
The backs of black leather boots hold the space between the curtain and floor
Cant take anymore.
Drugs.
Rhetoric. Disfunction. Congenial guises of sterility in actual bio-wasted stupor...
Will i be the same person forever?
Nuero-bomb drops. Isnt?
Crumpled tissue, hypodermic shame, spectacle spectacle.
your coat supposed to be whiter?
Actual tangible fog injected
Curtain curtain. Draw closed the curtain.
Guttural moans through not sterile walls
Rocking back and forth and
back and forth and
Have you been drinking?
I don’t drink.
Have you been thinking about hurting yourself.
I don’t think.
Calm down fuck you don’t swear i don’t care
Crumpled boy, not sterile, not sane, leaking. Leaking out.
Through holes in eyes and one in arm
Not to not to
back and forth and
Not to regain asylum in the insane asylum
Please, not to.
back and forth and
Security past curtain,
insecurity
through haze of whatthafuckaxanol or
Don’t keep their voices down.
triptandfellanine or
And rocking back and forth and
Innappropryl or
back and forth and
Don’t keep their voices down.
The backs of black leather boots hold the space between the curtain and floor
Cant take anymore.
Drugs.
Friday, 23 October 2009
Beach
(Written in London, 2009)
Three triplet brothers are the sole occupants of a rocky, sandless Beach which is, itself, very much alive. The cold Atlantic tide pulls at the rocks, causing a deafeningly thunderous rumble as they are pulled end over end into the relentless waves. The ocean spits, with each hissing breath, into the wind. It becomes sickly salty and looms heavily with frigid moisture. The thin tasteless air back home now seems pointless, and blank, in stark contrast.
These three identical brothers are easily considered abnormal, even for triplets.
Abe, the eldest was born without sight.
Adam the middle child cannot hear.
The youngest, Enoch, never spoke a word his whole life.
In academic, sporting and social pursuits they were able to work as a cohesive unit. As a result, they never lacked respect in their community. Although they were never truly alone, they always knew what it was to be lonely, shying away from the community’s watchful eye. But here, in the Beach’s literal solitude, the salty air is made sweet. The caustic bite of the incoming cold front is dulled. The rocks become less jagged.
The stones being dragged in by the tides rumble on. However, now in mocking imitation to the thunder which rolls in with measured restraint, from the clouds above downward.
Enoch, who never spoke a word, is the only of the brothers to see the knife as furious Beach roars in his ears. He is captivated by the shimmering blade. Doesn’t scream. Can’t. He dies watching the distorted reflection of the sea in the now crimson blade of a knife freshly drawn from his jugular. It moves slowly towards his brother. He doesn’t see it coming. Can’t.
It’s true that when one sense is deadened another thrives. However, in the din of electricity, even Abe hears neither slice, gurgle, nor thump as his brother’s blood is let to be absorbed by gravelly Beach. The knife has already blown through Abe’s throat like sharp breeze, and Beach is clinging to the blood on his fingers around his neck, when he hears it: The slow, steady crunches of gravel becoming fainter with distance. They move inexorably towards his only living brother, who is surely gazing at the setting sun over the Atlantic.
And the sunset is beautiful and surreal, like a postcard from hell with love. Adam too is cut and let to bleed out like bred cattle. Past gleaming metal he can see what were once his brothers; now stilled. They don’t move. Can’t. Are damned to the realm of inanimate object. It is only he who has the vantage point in which to see the puzzle pieces as they fit into place, that in stepping backward show a greater, almost beautiful picture of their demise. The southwest wind runs its salty, now tainted fingers through his hair as, long seconds later, he takes his last breath, not hearing apologies never made; not even thinking about the knife.
Three triplet brothers are the sole occupants of a rocky, sandless Beach which is, itself, very much alive. The cold Atlantic tide pulls at the rocks, causing a deafeningly thunderous rumble as they are pulled end over end into the relentless waves. The ocean spits, with each hissing breath, into the wind. It becomes sickly salty and looms heavily with frigid moisture. The thin tasteless air back home now seems pointless, and blank, in stark contrast.
These three identical brothers are easily considered abnormal, even for triplets.
Abe, the eldest was born without sight.
Adam the middle child cannot hear.
The youngest, Enoch, never spoke a word his whole life.
In academic, sporting and social pursuits they were able to work as a cohesive unit. As a result, they never lacked respect in their community. Although they were never truly alone, they always knew what it was to be lonely, shying away from the community’s watchful eye. But here, in the Beach’s literal solitude, the salty air is made sweet. The caustic bite of the incoming cold front is dulled. The rocks become less jagged.
The stones being dragged in by the tides rumble on. However, now in mocking imitation to the thunder which rolls in with measured restraint, from the clouds above downward.
Enoch, who never spoke a word, is the only of the brothers to see the knife as furious Beach roars in his ears. He is captivated by the shimmering blade. Doesn’t scream. Can’t. He dies watching the distorted reflection of the sea in the now crimson blade of a knife freshly drawn from his jugular. It moves slowly towards his brother. He doesn’t see it coming. Can’t.
It’s true that when one sense is deadened another thrives. However, in the din of electricity, even Abe hears neither slice, gurgle, nor thump as his brother’s blood is let to be absorbed by gravelly Beach. The knife has already blown through Abe’s throat like sharp breeze, and Beach is clinging to the blood on his fingers around his neck, when he hears it: The slow, steady crunches of gravel becoming fainter with distance. They move inexorably towards his only living brother, who is surely gazing at the setting sun over the Atlantic.
And the sunset is beautiful and surreal, like a postcard from hell with love. Adam too is cut and let to bleed out like bred cattle. Past gleaming metal he can see what were once his brothers; now stilled. They don’t move. Can’t. Are damned to the realm of inanimate object. It is only he who has the vantage point in which to see the puzzle pieces as they fit into place, that in stepping backward show a greater, almost beautiful picture of their demise. The southwest wind runs its salty, now tainted fingers through his hair as, long seconds later, he takes his last breath, not hearing apologies never made; not even thinking about the knife.
Never Knows Best
(Written in London, November 2008)
His son half-heartedly picks a piece of lint from his un-pressed dress-shirt. As his hand recoils, it snags on a sliver of cheap wood, which hangs maliciously from the rough corners of his father's makeshift coffin. He cringes at his own hurried craftsmanship. As he instinctively whips his limp hand back and forth loosely on his wrist, a spot of blood flies off to its final resting place: the collar of his father's wrinkled poly-cotton blend dress-shirt. There it would stay. It is in this moment that he truly realizes that his father is gone.
He'd been gone for years though, really. His only proof of life leaked out from the cracks of closed doors in the form of cigarette smoke, bangings on typewriter, crumplings of paper, and abrupt yellings of obscenity. Anyone who looked close enough could see that his demise was well planned for, if not purposeful, for his exit was slow and gradual. He merely faded from the forefront of their lives and minds, becoming smaller and smaller, to eventually become a mere spec on the horizon. We all watched his sailings away, but no one expected his spec to so uneventfully pass beyond the horizon on night, into nothing we could ever know about or perceive.
His service proceeded based on the criteria he set forth in his will, prior to his death. His very specific requests for this day were as such: He was not to be embalmed, for he held no hatred for the various creepies and crawlies that he knew would clean his flesh from his bone, without the addition of chemicals. He was to be buried right away, as his lack of preservation would necessitate. He wanted his son and daughter to build his coffin by hand, using the cheapest wood and whatever number of nails corresponded to his age, and not one more or less. Those banged into his coffin to seal it shut must be taken into account beforehand. These and the words on his cement tombstone were his only specifications.
His daughter, hopped up on speed, weeps, screaming the words of his father's favourite poem at the top of her lungs. Ginsberg himself couldn't have 'howled' so sincerely. She thought he never noticed her addiction. The truth is, he noticed, and silently disapproved and simultaneously understood. His rantings and ravings had long since lost their emphasis, as he faded to the realm of obscurity/insanity. They said he had dementia: early onset. They said he had undiagnosed and untreated bi-polarity. They said he had cannabis psychosis, and many other substance related neuroses. All who loved him knew better, though. He was just a normal guy, whose Herculean efforts to follow his dreams went unrewarded.
As his daughter finishes her reading, she lets out a drug-addled snort, wipes her nose and eyes, and brutally cracks her neck on its axis. She shakes like a kicked dog and takes her seat, where she taps her feet frantically, impatiently awaiting her next hit.
As he is lowered into the ground, his tombstone becomes visible for the first time. It reads simply and ambiguously, the date of death not yet carved in the rush of post-mortal preparations:
Joseph Francesco Taft Cesare
(1985 - )
Never Knew Best.
His son half-heartedly picks a piece of lint from his un-pressed dress-shirt. As his hand recoils, it snags on a sliver of cheap wood, which hangs maliciously from the rough corners of his father's makeshift coffin. He cringes at his own hurried craftsmanship. As he instinctively whips his limp hand back and forth loosely on his wrist, a spot of blood flies off to its final resting place: the collar of his father's wrinkled poly-cotton blend dress-shirt. There it would stay. It is in this moment that he truly realizes that his father is gone.
He'd been gone for years though, really. His only proof of life leaked out from the cracks of closed doors in the form of cigarette smoke, bangings on typewriter, crumplings of paper, and abrupt yellings of obscenity. Anyone who looked close enough could see that his demise was well planned for, if not purposeful, for his exit was slow and gradual. He merely faded from the forefront of their lives and minds, becoming smaller and smaller, to eventually become a mere spec on the horizon. We all watched his sailings away, but no one expected his spec to so uneventfully pass beyond the horizon on night, into nothing we could ever know about or perceive.
His service proceeded based on the criteria he set forth in his will, prior to his death. His very specific requests for this day were as such: He was not to be embalmed, for he held no hatred for the various creepies and crawlies that he knew would clean his flesh from his bone, without the addition of chemicals. He was to be buried right away, as his lack of preservation would necessitate. He wanted his son and daughter to build his coffin by hand, using the cheapest wood and whatever number of nails corresponded to his age, and not one more or less. Those banged into his coffin to seal it shut must be taken into account beforehand. These and the words on his cement tombstone were his only specifications.
His daughter, hopped up on speed, weeps, screaming the words of his father's favourite poem at the top of her lungs. Ginsberg himself couldn't have 'howled' so sincerely. She thought he never noticed her addiction. The truth is, he noticed, and silently disapproved and simultaneously understood. His rantings and ravings had long since lost their emphasis, as he faded to the realm of obscurity/insanity. They said he had dementia: early onset. They said he had undiagnosed and untreated bi-polarity. They said he had cannabis psychosis, and many other substance related neuroses. All who loved him knew better, though. He was just a normal guy, whose Herculean efforts to follow his dreams went unrewarded.
As his daughter finishes her reading, she lets out a drug-addled snort, wipes her nose and eyes, and brutally cracks her neck on its axis. She shakes like a kicked dog and takes her seat, where she taps her feet frantically, impatiently awaiting her next hit.
As he is lowered into the ground, his tombstone becomes visible for the first time. It reads simply and ambiguously, the date of death not yet carved in the rush of post-mortal preparations:
Joseph Francesco Taft Cesare
(1985 - )
Never Knew Best.
Beautiful Brutal
(Written in London, February 2009)
As I was going to sleep that night, I considered the very real possibility that she may end my life before morning. The night’s head games had been particularly intense, and as I lay in bed, freshly fucked, tasting my own bloody lips, I didn’t wonder IF but HOW she would do it. I decided promptly that she lacked the wholehearted and heavy-handed commitment required for some blunt force trauma... and actually, any bludgeoning was far from her style. My girl would never do that, I considered her far too delicate.
It occurred to me that she WOULD theoretically poison me, however. Except that I DO believe that her contrasting elation earlier in the evening was sincere, if maniacal, so she probably hadn’t had the foresight to do so. Poison, however, is somewhat closer to considerable.
But why would she, my wilting, blooming flower, want to end me, her well-intentioned if clumsy gardener? As I shiver with post-climax, the beautiful, brutal, buxom, blonde on my arm roles over and kisses my neck. Through a haze of deep sleep she reaches out a hand, which at first strokes my chest, but soon is digging deep trenches into my flesh with her claws, as they wander painfully down my stomach. I flinch and squirm in pain but not surprise. She does this all the time, like some fucking cat...and then I realized EXACTLY how she would do it.
There was this blade I bought her for her 16th birthday, to protect her when I couldn’t. It now shimmered red and deadly in the faint light that crept in from the street, on a bedside table beneath the window. She kept it with her always, dreaming of a day when its cruel design would be self-realizing, an equalizing force in her life.
I had encouraged her to cut me once, in the throes of a sadomasochistic romp, and she eventually did, but not before I told her to... and I quote...’stab me in the heart.’ Our eyes met as she sliced into my chest, and she screamed in orgasmic crescendo, as the blood; MY BLOOD trickled down to her pink linen sheets.
So how did I sleep with this knowledge curled up beneath my arm, leg draped over my body? I don’t know exactly... but I remember that it wasn’t difficult.
As I was going to sleep that night, I considered the very real possibility that she may end my life before morning. The night’s head games had been particularly intense, and as I lay in bed, freshly fucked, tasting my own bloody lips, I didn’t wonder IF but HOW she would do it. I decided promptly that she lacked the wholehearted and heavy-handed commitment required for some blunt force trauma... and actually, any bludgeoning was far from her style. My girl would never do that, I considered her far too delicate.
It occurred to me that she WOULD theoretically poison me, however. Except that I DO believe that her contrasting elation earlier in the evening was sincere, if maniacal, so she probably hadn’t had the foresight to do so. Poison, however, is somewhat closer to considerable.
But why would she, my wilting, blooming flower, want to end me, her well-intentioned if clumsy gardener? As I shiver with post-climax, the beautiful, brutal, buxom, blonde on my arm roles over and kisses my neck. Through a haze of deep sleep she reaches out a hand, which at first strokes my chest, but soon is digging deep trenches into my flesh with her claws, as they wander painfully down my stomach. I flinch and squirm in pain but not surprise. She does this all the time, like some fucking cat...and then I realized EXACTLY how she would do it.
There was this blade I bought her for her 16th birthday, to protect her when I couldn’t. It now shimmered red and deadly in the faint light that crept in from the street, on a bedside table beneath the window. She kept it with her always, dreaming of a day when its cruel design would be self-realizing, an equalizing force in her life.
I had encouraged her to cut me once, in the throes of a sadomasochistic romp, and she eventually did, but not before I told her to... and I quote...’stab me in the heart.’ Our eyes met as she sliced into my chest, and she screamed in orgasmic crescendo, as the blood; MY BLOOD trickled down to her pink linen sheets.
So how did I sleep with this knowledge curled up beneath my arm, leg draped over my body? I don’t know exactly... but I remember that it wasn’t difficult.
The Bus Stop Prophet
::Written in Montana [2004-2005] for New York [1985-present]::
Eyes lowered, cracks in the sidewalk move beneath my feet. It seems like I'm never surprised anymore. You look around this city, in this part of town, you know what you'll see. Street lights, smashed glass, pavement. dog shit, condom wrappers, and all sorts of other casual rubble. Here, we have trees planted in cement, surrounded by a bit of dirt which serves as a feeble oxygen mask for its roots. You look around for something to cling to, a beautiful woman, a playing child, a puppy. Something. Anything. You soon forget about natural beauty. The ugliness becomes comforting. This whole city is covered in graffiti that only i can see. As i walk i see invisible tags in blood red under the bridge where my heart was first broken. That was a long time ago. I've adapted, become as hard as the brick walls, concrete, and steel beams that surround me. And I know I've become just as ugly. It hurts, but from this hardening comes safety. These are the people who thrive here.
Therapists and psychologists will tell you building emotional walls is self-destructive. I say build your walls. Build them as strong as you can make them. My advice is, build your little fortress of solitude. But he who neglects to build a door resigns himself to a slow a lonely suicide. The catch twenty two is, in isolation, no one can hurt you, but you can always hurt yourself.
I walk on, smoke my lonely joint. Absentmindedly, I check my watch, fully knowing that it doesn't matter at all what it says. I realize how pale I've become. My skin looks ashen and lifeless. In fact, I cant remember the last time I saw direct sunlight. Not the artificial kind. Cold, dead gray or the dull yellow that flickers and have been known to cause seizures in epileptics. These days, I've adapted to living at night. Without any reliance on the life giving sun . I thrive on darkness, in total ignorance of the stars above, floating just slightly beyond myself, above the luminescent fog of the city lights.
Light travels one hundred and eighty six thousand miles per second. Sounds tiresome to me. My stride is what keeps me alive. My one step per second leaves light whizzing beyond me, through space and time. I watch and sigh. Smoke lingers in the still city air, in thick wafts in my wake .Does light pass through me at its blistering speed? No. I am opaque and omnipotent. My skin is where light goes to die. Slowly wearing away my epidermis, leaving me burnt, itchy, and at a higher risk for dermatological cancer. Fuck the sun, fuck time. I'm nocturnal now.
I walk on, waxing philosophical, when a faceless passerby's pit bull snaps at my legs. I don't flinch. I'm covering ground, not knowing where I'm going or who I'll be when i get there. Anyway, I'm just hoping wherever I end up, I can smoke there.
. . .
Soon I've covered enough ground to find myself in slightly familiar neighborhood. Its not long before I'm approached by an only slightly more familiar dude, who i recognize only because he's sold me grass once. He flags me down, grabs my jacket, and rushes me inside. I know I've been here before, though I haven't the vaguest idea of when. Beer stained carpets, fast food garbage, cracked ceilings, two tattered couches (clearly dragged in from a nearby alley) both facing a very expensive big screen television.... basically Everywhere, U.S.A. Could be any dealers house in town.
To my unsurprised dismay, he has another fucking pit bull. Nobody buys a home security system anymore. It takes one look at me and latches onto the arm of my thick army surplus jacket. I look at the dealer and get no response. so as politely as possible, i slap the dog hard between the eyes. it yelps and ten minutes later is licking the skin exposed between my pants and socks like a fucking puppy. Fortunately, the shady character before me has abused this dog enough for it to confuse violence with affection. I cant blame the dog. I know a lot of people who are similarly afflicted..
I light up another joint, gag, cough, and pass it through a cloud of smoke to him. He pulls heavy on it, and speaks in breathless tones, holding in smoke.
" Man for a weed head you sure got some aggression issues."
"sorry, i hate pit bulls." he hands it to me and points at the dog.
"whatever, dude. some mother fucker tried to jack my shit the other night and he did'n halfway get through the door 'fore betty' over here was doin her job. a couple chunks of bloody denim on the floor was the only reason I knew the shit even happened." Hearing this i blow my last hit towards his dog who obviously needs to mellow the fuck out.
"Betty? you're telling me that thing's a girl?"
"yeah man, idn't she pretty?" he shoves his head down into the dog's face and starts baby talking. My disgusted groan goes unheard as she growls at his sudden movement and is slapped brutally in the head. Talk about mixed messages. funny thing is that this interaction reminds me of an ex girlfriend.
It's his turn to roll up. he pulls out a Philly cigar, unwraps its brittle outer layer, cracks it down the middle and hands it to me. I load it and roll it back up. The dealer speaks.
"So dude, you hear what's-his-name died?"
i perk up.
"what? that could mean anyone, who?"
"you know, um... that weird kid...TREVOR! yeah that's his name, Trevor. Guess they found him right after he stood in front of a train the tracks. Maybe playin' chicken or somethin,' I don't know. guess when they found him he was surrounded by all these family photos and shit...what a mess... but who carries that shit around anyway? he always was a pussy."
"fuck you man. I gotta go."
"what the hell, alright man, but you gonna leave that blunt err what?"
I toss a fiver on the table, and say: "no." and to the back of my head he yells "what about the buck twenty-five fer the Philly???" but I'm already halfway down the steps. I light it up and I'm cursing the dealer for his fucking ignorance but thanking god that he wasn't smart enough to keep his mouth shut, otherwise I'd have never known. I don't know much, but I do know is this, that was no game of chicken. that was suicide.
. . .
So the thing is I never knew Trevor that well at all. We met in junior high through some similarity in musical taste or some other superficial bullshit. the point is, we were basically thrown together. Lunch room buddies, hallway allies, but never much more.
What I remember most about Trevor isn't even about him. The first funeral I ever attended was that of Trevor's mother in 8th grade. Failed liver surgery I think... I don't know why I went. or why I wouldn't have gone, for that matter. I remember her skin was yellow like week old bruises all over and that I never did see Trevor cry.
It was the first dead body I had ever seen and relatively few were to follow. Once, in a brutal electrical storm, on the side of the road, there was a smashed motorcycle and a small girl sort of milling around. She couldn't have been over ten years old ...They were covering someone up as I went by. I quivered when i saw his face. It stark white against the lights of the ambulance. I remember thinking about the soaking wet little girl and that she would probably remember this day for the rest of her life. .
The last time was at my uncle frank's funeral, whose body I remember not recognizing. He lay in his coffin his face was covered in make up meant to make him look as he did when he was alive. Having never met my uncle, the mortician seemed to have no point of reference. The dead body before me was unreal somehow. It felt like the body of a stranger. Not my blood, which now, replaced by embalming fluid, no longer flowed through his veins. I read my pre-written goodbye poem to him under my breathe anyway. I knelt in front of his coffin, though shaking uncontrollably, couldn't bring myself to cry.
I'm alone with the sound of my footsteps. Thinking of dead bodies as it begins to rain. I'm still puffing the nameless asshole's blunt. My feet move automatically, without any effort on my part. I accept this, but notice something else. Something internal... in my chest specifically: labored breathe. Heart palpitations. Then a sudden rush of blood into my brain and face. the rain saves me from embarrassment as I walk down the street with my lonely blunt, suddenly realizing that I am weeping uncontrollably. As I hit the steps of my tiny little apartment in the wrong part of town, I decide it definitively. I'm going to another funeral.
. . .
Walking into Trevor's funeral I knew. Maybe it was by the riotous nature of the gathering, or maybe it was something more subconscious, but it was obvious to me. Trevor, like myself, comes from what looks like , a first-generation Sicilian family. Now I'm scared and i speak to no one. Every one is in strictly black. The whole spectrum of color prohibited, aside from the white of a man's collar. Its perceived as conscious personal insult not to abide. Women have been known to stay in black for months, or years. These are the women who are beating their chests and throwing themselves on the coffin before me. Weeping, screaming "Why, God, WHY???" I thought that a more appropriate question would addressed Trevor directly, but we Sicilianos aren't known for our sense of realism. At best we're a people driven by tradition and emotion. At worst passion fuels a blind haze of denial to manipulate reality for selfish reasons.
Sicilian funerals are legendary for their post-mortal frenzy. but at the funeral of a child, the despair takes your breathe away: like the feeling of abrupt falling. the stink of wasted potential is in everyone's nostrils, making the mourners water at the eyes and scream. A roman catholic priests jabbers on without inflection or acknowledgement of the grieving audience before him. There are no creases on its spine of his bible, or dog-ears on its pages. I'm uncomfortably aware that he hasn't looked toward the body of deceased since I walked in. I detect not a hint of empathy in his voice as he stiffly recites the perfunctory garbage from his big black book. I must have been the only one hearing his words at all. No one reacts as the priest matter-of-factly recites a verse assuring us that having committed suicide, and squandered god's gift of life, Trevor is damned into eternal hellfire.
I swallow hard, and extend the obligatory Sicilian condolences to his family who according to tradition are seated in the front row with the closest view of the coffin. Through sobs, a sage-like, old crone of a woman clutches my face hard, nails first, and forces me to look into her still young, and infinitely deep brown eyes. The weight of almost a century weighs down on her shoulder making her back curve and knees weaken. She thanks me in an eerily familiar Italian dialect and releases me. Later, in the bathroom, I realize with a tinge of pain, that her nails have actually punctured the skin on my face On each side of my face are four claw marks, each trickling down my cheeks. I splash cold water over the wounds, attempting to wash away the blood and bring me back to my senses.
I've had the unfortunate opportunity to attend these Sicilian funerals before. I'm glad to be away, even just for a second, to breathe. I look in the mirror and see a scared man staring back at me. The mourners have already gained momentum since I arrived and are building towards an epic frenzy. It wont be long before the men in the black suits begin to usher people out. But I've done this before, I know how to turn myself off, keep walking. I watch my pale hands tremble as I wait in line to pay my last personal respects. The room stinks of fresh flowers and even fresher guilt.
I feel blood coagulating in my five o'clock shadow, as I kneel before the coffin in genuflection. The casket is closed given the nature of his end, but I wonder if his body is even in there at all. The smell of someone so smashed up must be horrible. Here I am, so close, yet I smell nothing... my thoughts race incomprehensibly. After kneeling solemnly, for the appropriate amount of time, I rise and make tracks right out the door.
. . .
I'm glad to be out of there without having lost my composure. The forty-five minutes of frantic air and weeping women leave me quivering and weak. My feet carry me home, and its not long before the heartbreak train of reality catches up, smashing me to bits, reducing me to red pulp and scattered family photos. I am devastated by the blow and drop to my knees on the yellow lines of the busy highway. I am losing control. An internal battles rages, a part of me screaming:
"why, why, WHY am i so effected??? WHY does this send tremors through my arms, legs, chest???" the other part of me slams hard inside my chest sending four words pulsing through my veins.
"It could've been you... It could've been you" the rebuttal shoots straight from my brain, bypasses my tongue, and slams into my heart.
" NO, not me. I am stronger. I am different." i am unconvinced.
"Tell me then HOW are you so different? Your town, your nationality, your family background, your drug habits, your friends, your coping mechanisms... ALL THE SAME.. Feel the blood flowing from your face and tell me you believe yourself to be so safe, so... different. "
"Its not my fault if he had sought my help I would never have turned him away!"
"But you know that he never would! because you know YOU never would. You're both trapped behind doorless walls. rotting inside and then out."
All of sudden:
clarity.
I rise up
with focus
both halves of myself
silenced.
yellow lines move beneath my feet
i am the only one who truly exists
when i blink
the whole world blinks with me
if i were to never open my eyes again
this whole fucked up city, this fucked up world
would close its eyes with me.
i am god's golden child
i am the power of choice
the weight of history on my shoulders
the fate of mankind on my back
as i walk between the two lanes
of the inspiration superhighway.
Every citizen in this god forsaken city must be out tonight. I ignore the mass of blank, lifeless faces. Every expression screams help me. I'm so very lost. All of their voices reverberate inside my head. Each one echoing over and over. My blood pumps hard through my veins and everything just keeps getting louder and louder to a great crescendo. All of a sudden I have the feeling of my heart exploding inside my chest and I wait to hit the floor... but I never do. Everything goes quiet. I now feel pleasantly detached and watch myself from outside my body.
I walk with determination,
but don't feel the ground beneath my feet
I hear horns blaring
but everything sounds muted and far away.
I see cars speed towards and past me on both sides
but I have tunnel vision now
the two lanes of the inspiration superhighway
run up and down the back of my legs
up and down the length of my spine
I have become one with this city
I am as hard as the concrete that surrounds me
my eyes follow those yellow lines all the way to the horizon
Then I break into a run simultaneously pulling my arms back and opening my palms. Arms outstretched I thrust forward and attempt to plunge my hands deep into the bellies of the machines, zooming towards me. At the moment of impact I feel thrust back into my body and my senses come flooding back to me. I hear the smash of glass, screech of tires, the crunch of metal. Blood trickles down my fingers as I sprint onward, but the pain is no longer a novelty to me. The adrenaline pumps through my veins and into my heart. I keep running, bleeding, until I hit the steps of my tiny little apartment in the wrong part of town and I fall to the cement, shivering, sweating, beyond tears, and totally exhausted.
. . .
That night I had dream. I saw myself from a few feet above my bed. My arms outstretched, neck rigid . I'm facing the ceiling, eyes closed tight, quivering with rapid eye movement. I'm drenched in sweat, which encircles me head with a damp halo. In the saintly pose of the crucifix, my wrists have bled through to the mattress in dark, stigmatic splotches. Then, all of a sudden, the abrupt altitude drop feeling of my stomach jumping up through my throat and cutting off my breath. I choke and feel thrown back into my body as I awake with a gasp.
Breathing heavily I try to get up but with a great jolt of pain from my wrist to shoulder, realize that my left hand is obviously broken. I roll to my side and sit up. Looking around my dark, dingy one room apartment, I wonder how my unconscious mind could see it's sleeping body from the outside in. I dismiss the thought, ignoring the dark, almost black dried blood stains on my sheets and damp circle on my pillow. I assess my hands and feel oddly triumphant. My left hand is clearly broken, but despite being badly cut open, my right hand is totally functional. Now I know the power these hands possess and feel nearly invulnerable.
I wonder what time it is but realize the hour is pointless. Time is my only foe now. We fight a battle I know I could never win. The best I can do is ignore my enemy. I go to my closet and rip up a dirty black band t-shirt into thick strips. I wash my hands in cold water and pick the bits of fragmented glass from my palms. the shrapnel clinks as I drop the bits into the sink. clink... one. clink... two. cli-clink... clink-clink. over and over until eventually probably fifteen or so hit the porcelain. I give up. The rest can stay.
I wrap my hands tightly and dunk my head under cold, cold water. I come up for air, gasping. In my cracked mirror, I remember the scratches on my cheeks. They are an inch long each. I look like a boxer who having lost his big fight was tossed limp into the gutter to find his own way home. All I can do is force myself out of the house for a cup of coffee. Walking out the door I pluck a stray chunk of shrapnelized glass out of my neck. I don't flinch and for some reason cant help but smile a little.
. . .
Before long I find myself at the bus stop waiting for the 55 across town with my free token to nowhere. I'm sitting next to a woman with her baby. I notice she's looking at my hands. I don't mind. I start tightening my makeshift bandages and smile. She returns the gesture. A man in front of me stares up the street, apparently looking for that first glimpse of the bus before it hits the curb.
His skin looks stretched over his face giving him an ethnically ambiguous, and ageless look. He could be anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. He could be an import from Bombay, Palermo, Cairo, or Oaxaca. His distinguishing features look worn down by the wind of this city, making him neither grotesque, nor beautiful. He's muttering. No one else seems to notice or care. I approach him and arrange myself so we're shoulder to shoulder. I'm listening to his mumbling. It seems unintelligible. I say hello but I don't get through. He never misses a beat, just talking and talking, maybe in another language, and maybe in no language at all. I can see that on his fingers is a prison style tattoo spelling "l o s t s o u l" in fading script across his knuckles.
The bus screeches almost up the curb and the hydraulic door hisses at me, as I jump into the still opening door. My token clinks down the slot and into the belly of the machine. I walk to the third row back and choose a seat next to a very obese woman. It was a mild day, but this woman was drenched in sweat and was obviously having trouble breathing. Right away I notice the two packs of Newport Menthols sticking halfway out of her purse. I had to say something.
"Are you okay?" She chokes on air, swallows and says:
"Jesus Christ" and through labored breathe manages... "help me now..."
I do not respond, struggling for words.
"What's wrong?" was all I could come up with.
"lu-lung cancer" she responds through a cough "no money..." hack, cough "...for chemo."
"I'm sorry" I respond vaguely. I'm sorry for my utter speechlessness and for needing to force words to the surface. She fills the silence with her wheezing struggle for breathe and words.
"I swear to god..." hack, cough "...I just found my husband" hack, cough, "dead body..." hack, cough " ...in our apartment." and then she stopped breathing and looked right into my eyes. I truly believed her.
I make a noise but words totally escape me. I say nothing. What I see in her eyes makes it real for me, too. This was it, her proof of mortality. Her inevitable end was never realer for her than right here, right now, sharing this moment with a total stranger. I can almost hear those same words whispered beneath her every frantic breathe: it could have been me, it could have been me. And I cant help but think of Trevor and his weeping famiglia, shrouded in black, like the wounds in my hands, that have saturated my bandages. They are bleeding out onto my pants with the increasing speed of my heart. Before I have a chance to speak (what would probably be, my clumsy condolences), I begin to realize the ageless man's muttering was picking up speed too. People were either looking or pretending not to. He gains momentum. It has become a chant now, increasing in emphasis and rhythm. My whole body rocks as the rhythm of the woman's gasping for air accelerates with the ageless man's tempo. More and more, louder and louder, faster and faster. I don't think she can take anymore of this. There are tears in her eyes and blood on her lips. Then abruptly, the ageless man, the bus stop prophet, yells out in a new deeper voice, that resonates off the fiberglass walls:
"Jesus CHRIST was NO carpenter son of god!"
People don't pretend not to look anymore.
"Jesus Christ was a mason laying his bricks high in worship. He built up four solid walls around himself and his disciples, He never built a window for perspective. Never built a door to give his disciples the power of choice. He just kept building up and up. Talking and praying, using the backs of his people as his ladder. And the people stacked themselves happily, because they were closest to him when he was climbing their backs. He said he was going to bring them high enough to see God himself staring back at them. And they believed him, utterly. Eventually the mason son of god stopped."
The woman stops breathing and time seems to stand still as he continues in more muted tones.
"He became silent and the disciples did the same. He had run out of bricks to build with and backs to carry him higher. Jesus stayed silent. The man had run out of words to vibrate their eardrums, massaging their brains and souls. He looked down. He looked up. He looked at his disciples. And he jumped, in self defense, turning his tower into a prison and keeping heaven all for himself."
Everyone sits, stunned. No one makes a sound. The ageless man is now calm. Seeming to have exorcized his demons. These words must have been festering inside of him. He must've been suppressing this within himself, trying with all his strength not to combust. Now he simply sits, silently, a strange shadow of ambiguity. No one and everyone. Idiot, Savant, God, Devil, all at once. Everywhere and Nowhere. Always. Something is rising up from deep within me. An eerie energy has permeated the bus. With his frenzied incantation, the ageless man seems to have cast a spell on the bus, silencing all of them. A strange waking dream comes over me. Alien thoughts crash into my head with thunderous emphasis. We're all sleeping Supermen, dreaming of normalcy, flat broke Batmen, with no money for toys. We're all tragic superheroes. Given access to such infinite power, but squandering it all. I pull the stop chord and jump off the bus with the doors half open and the sidewalk still moving beneath my feet.
Eyes lowered, cracks in the sidewalk move beneath my feet. It seems like I'm never surprised anymore. You look around this city, in this part of town, you know what you'll see. Street lights, smashed glass, pavement. dog shit, condom wrappers, and all sorts of other casual rubble. Here, we have trees planted in cement, surrounded by a bit of dirt which serves as a feeble oxygen mask for its roots. You look around for something to cling to, a beautiful woman, a playing child, a puppy. Something. Anything. You soon forget about natural beauty. The ugliness becomes comforting. This whole city is covered in graffiti that only i can see. As i walk i see invisible tags in blood red under the bridge where my heart was first broken. That was a long time ago. I've adapted, become as hard as the brick walls, concrete, and steel beams that surround me. And I know I've become just as ugly. It hurts, but from this hardening comes safety. These are the people who thrive here.
Therapists and psychologists will tell you building emotional walls is self-destructive. I say build your walls. Build them as strong as you can make them. My advice is, build your little fortress of solitude. But he who neglects to build a door resigns himself to a slow a lonely suicide. The catch twenty two is, in isolation, no one can hurt you, but you can always hurt yourself.
I walk on, smoke my lonely joint. Absentmindedly, I check my watch, fully knowing that it doesn't matter at all what it says. I realize how pale I've become. My skin looks ashen and lifeless. In fact, I cant remember the last time I saw direct sunlight. Not the artificial kind. Cold, dead gray or the dull yellow that flickers and have been known to cause seizures in epileptics. These days, I've adapted to living at night. Without any reliance on the life giving sun . I thrive on darkness, in total ignorance of the stars above, floating just slightly beyond myself, above the luminescent fog of the city lights.
Light travels one hundred and eighty six thousand miles per second. Sounds tiresome to me. My stride is what keeps me alive. My one step per second leaves light whizzing beyond me, through space and time. I watch and sigh. Smoke lingers in the still city air, in thick wafts in my wake .Does light pass through me at its blistering speed? No. I am opaque and omnipotent. My skin is where light goes to die. Slowly wearing away my epidermis, leaving me burnt, itchy, and at a higher risk for dermatological cancer. Fuck the sun, fuck time. I'm nocturnal now.
I walk on, waxing philosophical, when a faceless passerby's pit bull snaps at my legs. I don't flinch. I'm covering ground, not knowing where I'm going or who I'll be when i get there. Anyway, I'm just hoping wherever I end up, I can smoke there.
. . .
Soon I've covered enough ground to find myself in slightly familiar neighborhood. Its not long before I'm approached by an only slightly more familiar dude, who i recognize only because he's sold me grass once. He flags me down, grabs my jacket, and rushes me inside. I know I've been here before, though I haven't the vaguest idea of when. Beer stained carpets, fast food garbage, cracked ceilings, two tattered couches (clearly dragged in from a nearby alley) both facing a very expensive big screen television.... basically Everywhere, U.S.A. Could be any dealers house in town.
To my unsurprised dismay, he has another fucking pit bull. Nobody buys a home security system anymore. It takes one look at me and latches onto the arm of my thick army surplus jacket. I look at the dealer and get no response. so as politely as possible, i slap the dog hard between the eyes. it yelps and ten minutes later is licking the skin exposed between my pants and socks like a fucking puppy. Fortunately, the shady character before me has abused this dog enough for it to confuse violence with affection. I cant blame the dog. I know a lot of people who are similarly afflicted..
I light up another joint, gag, cough, and pass it through a cloud of smoke to him. He pulls heavy on it, and speaks in breathless tones, holding in smoke.
" Man for a weed head you sure got some aggression issues."
"sorry, i hate pit bulls." he hands it to me and points at the dog.
"whatever, dude. some mother fucker tried to jack my shit the other night and he did'n halfway get through the door 'fore betty' over here was doin her job. a couple chunks of bloody denim on the floor was the only reason I knew the shit even happened." Hearing this i blow my last hit towards his dog who obviously needs to mellow the fuck out.
"Betty? you're telling me that thing's a girl?"
"yeah man, idn't she pretty?" he shoves his head down into the dog's face and starts baby talking. My disgusted groan goes unheard as she growls at his sudden movement and is slapped brutally in the head. Talk about mixed messages. funny thing is that this interaction reminds me of an ex girlfriend.
It's his turn to roll up. he pulls out a Philly cigar, unwraps its brittle outer layer, cracks it down the middle and hands it to me. I load it and roll it back up. The dealer speaks.
"So dude, you hear what's-his-name died?"
i perk up.
"what? that could mean anyone, who?"
"you know, um... that weird kid...TREVOR! yeah that's his name, Trevor. Guess they found him right after he stood in front of a train the tracks. Maybe playin' chicken or somethin,' I don't know. guess when they found him he was surrounded by all these family photos and shit...what a mess... but who carries that shit around anyway? he always was a pussy."
"fuck you man. I gotta go."
"what the hell, alright man, but you gonna leave that blunt err what?"
I toss a fiver on the table, and say: "no." and to the back of my head he yells "what about the buck twenty-five fer the Philly???" but I'm already halfway down the steps. I light it up and I'm cursing the dealer for his fucking ignorance but thanking god that he wasn't smart enough to keep his mouth shut, otherwise I'd have never known. I don't know much, but I do know is this, that was no game of chicken. that was suicide.
. . .
So the thing is I never knew Trevor that well at all. We met in junior high through some similarity in musical taste or some other superficial bullshit. the point is, we were basically thrown together. Lunch room buddies, hallway allies, but never much more.
What I remember most about Trevor isn't even about him. The first funeral I ever attended was that of Trevor's mother in 8th grade. Failed liver surgery I think... I don't know why I went. or why I wouldn't have gone, for that matter. I remember her skin was yellow like week old bruises all over and that I never did see Trevor cry.
It was the first dead body I had ever seen and relatively few were to follow. Once, in a brutal electrical storm, on the side of the road, there was a smashed motorcycle and a small girl sort of milling around. She couldn't have been over ten years old ...They were covering someone up as I went by. I quivered when i saw his face. It stark white against the lights of the ambulance. I remember thinking about the soaking wet little girl and that she would probably remember this day for the rest of her life. .
The last time was at my uncle frank's funeral, whose body I remember not recognizing. He lay in his coffin his face was covered in make up meant to make him look as he did when he was alive. Having never met my uncle, the mortician seemed to have no point of reference. The dead body before me was unreal somehow. It felt like the body of a stranger. Not my blood, which now, replaced by embalming fluid, no longer flowed through his veins. I read my pre-written goodbye poem to him under my breathe anyway. I knelt in front of his coffin, though shaking uncontrollably, couldn't bring myself to cry.
I'm alone with the sound of my footsteps. Thinking of dead bodies as it begins to rain. I'm still puffing the nameless asshole's blunt. My feet move automatically, without any effort on my part. I accept this, but notice something else. Something internal... in my chest specifically: labored breathe. Heart palpitations. Then a sudden rush of blood into my brain and face. the rain saves me from embarrassment as I walk down the street with my lonely blunt, suddenly realizing that I am weeping uncontrollably. As I hit the steps of my tiny little apartment in the wrong part of town, I decide it definitively. I'm going to another funeral.
. . .
Walking into Trevor's funeral I knew. Maybe it was by the riotous nature of the gathering, or maybe it was something more subconscious, but it was obvious to me. Trevor, like myself, comes from what looks like , a first-generation Sicilian family. Now I'm scared and i speak to no one. Every one is in strictly black. The whole spectrum of color prohibited, aside from the white of a man's collar. Its perceived as conscious personal insult not to abide. Women have been known to stay in black for months, or years. These are the women who are beating their chests and throwing themselves on the coffin before me. Weeping, screaming "Why, God, WHY???" I thought that a more appropriate question would addressed Trevor directly, but we Sicilianos aren't known for our sense of realism. At best we're a people driven by tradition and emotion. At worst passion fuels a blind haze of denial to manipulate reality for selfish reasons.
Sicilian funerals are legendary for their post-mortal frenzy. but at the funeral of a child, the despair takes your breathe away: like the feeling of abrupt falling. the stink of wasted potential is in everyone's nostrils, making the mourners water at the eyes and scream. A roman catholic priests jabbers on without inflection or acknowledgement of the grieving audience before him. There are no creases on its spine of his bible, or dog-ears on its pages. I'm uncomfortably aware that he hasn't looked toward the body of deceased since I walked in. I detect not a hint of empathy in his voice as he stiffly recites the perfunctory garbage from his big black book. I must have been the only one hearing his words at all. No one reacts as the priest matter-of-factly recites a verse assuring us that having committed suicide, and squandered god's gift of life, Trevor is damned into eternal hellfire.
I swallow hard, and extend the obligatory Sicilian condolences to his family who according to tradition are seated in the front row with the closest view of the coffin. Through sobs, a sage-like, old crone of a woman clutches my face hard, nails first, and forces me to look into her still young, and infinitely deep brown eyes. The weight of almost a century weighs down on her shoulder making her back curve and knees weaken. She thanks me in an eerily familiar Italian dialect and releases me. Later, in the bathroom, I realize with a tinge of pain, that her nails have actually punctured the skin on my face On each side of my face are four claw marks, each trickling down my cheeks. I splash cold water over the wounds, attempting to wash away the blood and bring me back to my senses.
I've had the unfortunate opportunity to attend these Sicilian funerals before. I'm glad to be away, even just for a second, to breathe. I look in the mirror and see a scared man staring back at me. The mourners have already gained momentum since I arrived and are building towards an epic frenzy. It wont be long before the men in the black suits begin to usher people out. But I've done this before, I know how to turn myself off, keep walking. I watch my pale hands tremble as I wait in line to pay my last personal respects. The room stinks of fresh flowers and even fresher guilt.
I feel blood coagulating in my five o'clock shadow, as I kneel before the coffin in genuflection. The casket is closed given the nature of his end, but I wonder if his body is even in there at all. The smell of someone so smashed up must be horrible. Here I am, so close, yet I smell nothing... my thoughts race incomprehensibly. After kneeling solemnly, for the appropriate amount of time, I rise and make tracks right out the door.
. . .
I'm glad to be out of there without having lost my composure. The forty-five minutes of frantic air and weeping women leave me quivering and weak. My feet carry me home, and its not long before the heartbreak train of reality catches up, smashing me to bits, reducing me to red pulp and scattered family photos. I am devastated by the blow and drop to my knees on the yellow lines of the busy highway. I am losing control. An internal battles rages, a part of me screaming:
"why, why, WHY am i so effected??? WHY does this send tremors through my arms, legs, chest???" the other part of me slams hard inside my chest sending four words pulsing through my veins.
"It could've been you... It could've been you" the rebuttal shoots straight from my brain, bypasses my tongue, and slams into my heart.
" NO, not me. I am stronger. I am different." i am unconvinced.
"Tell me then HOW are you so different? Your town, your nationality, your family background, your drug habits, your friends, your coping mechanisms... ALL THE SAME.. Feel the blood flowing from your face and tell me you believe yourself to be so safe, so... different. "
"Its not my fault if he had sought my help I would never have turned him away!"
"But you know that he never would! because you know YOU never would. You're both trapped behind doorless walls. rotting inside and then out."
All of sudden:
clarity.
I rise up
with focus
both halves of myself
silenced.
yellow lines move beneath my feet
i am the only one who truly exists
when i blink
the whole world blinks with me
if i were to never open my eyes again
this whole fucked up city, this fucked up world
would close its eyes with me.
i am god's golden child
i am the power of choice
the weight of history on my shoulders
the fate of mankind on my back
as i walk between the two lanes
of the inspiration superhighway.
Every citizen in this god forsaken city must be out tonight. I ignore the mass of blank, lifeless faces. Every expression screams help me. I'm so very lost. All of their voices reverberate inside my head. Each one echoing over and over. My blood pumps hard through my veins and everything just keeps getting louder and louder to a great crescendo. All of a sudden I have the feeling of my heart exploding inside my chest and I wait to hit the floor... but I never do. Everything goes quiet. I now feel pleasantly detached and watch myself from outside my body.
I walk with determination,
but don't feel the ground beneath my feet
I hear horns blaring
but everything sounds muted and far away.
I see cars speed towards and past me on both sides
but I have tunnel vision now
the two lanes of the inspiration superhighway
run up and down the back of my legs
up and down the length of my spine
I have become one with this city
I am as hard as the concrete that surrounds me
my eyes follow those yellow lines all the way to the horizon
Then I break into a run simultaneously pulling my arms back and opening my palms. Arms outstretched I thrust forward and attempt to plunge my hands deep into the bellies of the machines, zooming towards me. At the moment of impact I feel thrust back into my body and my senses come flooding back to me. I hear the smash of glass, screech of tires, the crunch of metal. Blood trickles down my fingers as I sprint onward, but the pain is no longer a novelty to me. The adrenaline pumps through my veins and into my heart. I keep running, bleeding, until I hit the steps of my tiny little apartment in the wrong part of town and I fall to the cement, shivering, sweating, beyond tears, and totally exhausted.
. . .
That night I had dream. I saw myself from a few feet above my bed. My arms outstretched, neck rigid . I'm facing the ceiling, eyes closed tight, quivering with rapid eye movement. I'm drenched in sweat, which encircles me head with a damp halo. In the saintly pose of the crucifix, my wrists have bled through to the mattress in dark, stigmatic splotches. Then, all of a sudden, the abrupt altitude drop feeling of my stomach jumping up through my throat and cutting off my breath. I choke and feel thrown back into my body as I awake with a gasp.
Breathing heavily I try to get up but with a great jolt of pain from my wrist to shoulder, realize that my left hand is obviously broken. I roll to my side and sit up. Looking around my dark, dingy one room apartment, I wonder how my unconscious mind could see it's sleeping body from the outside in. I dismiss the thought, ignoring the dark, almost black dried blood stains on my sheets and damp circle on my pillow. I assess my hands and feel oddly triumphant. My left hand is clearly broken, but despite being badly cut open, my right hand is totally functional. Now I know the power these hands possess and feel nearly invulnerable.
I wonder what time it is but realize the hour is pointless. Time is my only foe now. We fight a battle I know I could never win. The best I can do is ignore my enemy. I go to my closet and rip up a dirty black band t-shirt into thick strips. I wash my hands in cold water and pick the bits of fragmented glass from my palms. the shrapnel clinks as I drop the bits into the sink. clink... one. clink... two. cli-clink... clink-clink. over and over until eventually probably fifteen or so hit the porcelain. I give up. The rest can stay.
I wrap my hands tightly and dunk my head under cold, cold water. I come up for air, gasping. In my cracked mirror, I remember the scratches on my cheeks. They are an inch long each. I look like a boxer who having lost his big fight was tossed limp into the gutter to find his own way home. All I can do is force myself out of the house for a cup of coffee. Walking out the door I pluck a stray chunk of shrapnelized glass out of my neck. I don't flinch and for some reason cant help but smile a little.
. . .
Before long I find myself at the bus stop waiting for the 55 across town with my free token to nowhere. I'm sitting next to a woman with her baby. I notice she's looking at my hands. I don't mind. I start tightening my makeshift bandages and smile. She returns the gesture. A man in front of me stares up the street, apparently looking for that first glimpse of the bus before it hits the curb.
His skin looks stretched over his face giving him an ethnically ambiguous, and ageless look. He could be anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. He could be an import from Bombay, Palermo, Cairo, or Oaxaca. His distinguishing features look worn down by the wind of this city, making him neither grotesque, nor beautiful. He's muttering. No one else seems to notice or care. I approach him and arrange myself so we're shoulder to shoulder. I'm listening to his mumbling. It seems unintelligible. I say hello but I don't get through. He never misses a beat, just talking and talking, maybe in another language, and maybe in no language at all. I can see that on his fingers is a prison style tattoo spelling "l o s t s o u l" in fading script across his knuckles.
The bus screeches almost up the curb and the hydraulic door hisses at me, as I jump into the still opening door. My token clinks down the slot and into the belly of the machine. I walk to the third row back and choose a seat next to a very obese woman. It was a mild day, but this woman was drenched in sweat and was obviously having trouble breathing. Right away I notice the two packs of Newport Menthols sticking halfway out of her purse. I had to say something.
"Are you okay?" She chokes on air, swallows and says:
"Jesus Christ" and through labored breathe manages... "help me now..."
I do not respond, struggling for words.
"What's wrong?" was all I could come up with.
"lu-lung cancer" she responds through a cough "no money..." hack, cough "...for chemo."
"I'm sorry" I respond vaguely. I'm sorry for my utter speechlessness and for needing to force words to the surface. She fills the silence with her wheezing struggle for breathe and words.
"I swear to god..." hack, cough "...I just found my husband" hack, cough, "dead body..." hack, cough " ...in our apartment." and then she stopped breathing and looked right into my eyes. I truly believed her.
I make a noise but words totally escape me. I say nothing. What I see in her eyes makes it real for me, too. This was it, her proof of mortality. Her inevitable end was never realer for her than right here, right now, sharing this moment with a total stranger. I can almost hear those same words whispered beneath her every frantic breathe: it could have been me, it could have been me. And I cant help but think of Trevor and his weeping famiglia, shrouded in black, like the wounds in my hands, that have saturated my bandages. They are bleeding out onto my pants with the increasing speed of my heart. Before I have a chance to speak (what would probably be, my clumsy condolences), I begin to realize the ageless man's muttering was picking up speed too. People were either looking or pretending not to. He gains momentum. It has become a chant now, increasing in emphasis and rhythm. My whole body rocks as the rhythm of the woman's gasping for air accelerates with the ageless man's tempo. More and more, louder and louder, faster and faster. I don't think she can take anymore of this. There are tears in her eyes and blood on her lips. Then abruptly, the ageless man, the bus stop prophet, yells out in a new deeper voice, that resonates off the fiberglass walls:
"Jesus CHRIST was NO carpenter son of god!"
People don't pretend not to look anymore.
"Jesus Christ was a mason laying his bricks high in worship. He built up four solid walls around himself and his disciples, He never built a window for perspective. Never built a door to give his disciples the power of choice. He just kept building up and up. Talking and praying, using the backs of his people as his ladder. And the people stacked themselves happily, because they were closest to him when he was climbing their backs. He said he was going to bring them high enough to see God himself staring back at them. And they believed him, utterly. Eventually the mason son of god stopped."
The woman stops breathing and time seems to stand still as he continues in more muted tones.
"He became silent and the disciples did the same. He had run out of bricks to build with and backs to carry him higher. Jesus stayed silent. The man had run out of words to vibrate their eardrums, massaging their brains and souls. He looked down. He looked up. He looked at his disciples. And he jumped, in self defense, turning his tower into a prison and keeping heaven all for himself."
Everyone sits, stunned. No one makes a sound. The ageless man is now calm. Seeming to have exorcized his demons. These words must have been festering inside of him. He must've been suppressing this within himself, trying with all his strength not to combust. Now he simply sits, silently, a strange shadow of ambiguity. No one and everyone. Idiot, Savant, God, Devil, all at once. Everywhere and Nowhere. Always. Something is rising up from deep within me. An eerie energy has permeated the bus. With his frenzied incantation, the ageless man seems to have cast a spell on the bus, silencing all of them. A strange waking dream comes over me. Alien thoughts crash into my head with thunderous emphasis. We're all sleeping Supermen, dreaming of normalcy, flat broke Batmen, with no money for toys. We're all tragic superheroes. Given access to such infinite power, but squandering it all. I pull the stop chord and jump off the bus with the doors half open and the sidewalk still moving beneath my feet.
I am Exponent.
God is the girl in the torn stockings, with a fistful of my hair, whose ears will ring all night from the amplifier I am grinding her against. Let me introduce myself. I am Exponent, an ex and possibly future mental patient. Her nails and teeth make it clear that she doesn’t mind damaging me. The whole of my being confirms that neither do I. I am fire re-re-reincarnate. I am strychnine cocktail shaking and stirring.
Concrete is cold on bare feet.
Glass when laid flat can be walked upon.
People charm snakes.
Are revived after moments with stilled heart.
Organs kept oxygenated (for harvest),
by forced heartbeat after ‘death’ is declared.
Anything is possible.
All these frivolities whispered no screamed into her ears
And are swallowed by the sound system.
Pulsing, throbbing, bass vibrates, bone, flesh leather, bodies moving no raging against each other themselves- concrete crack metamorphosis bleeds. Wandering hands have meandering needs and speed will succeed in all endeavours, thrashing and charging onward forever. Indeed this speed will become your disease for in its lack you will attack each and every cell in your being. Volatile mutually assured destruction wielding- cellular detachment in osmosis gloom doom- seasonal affective skin disorders order more product from Prada to mask wrinkles- insane maniacal screams in the- nothing being true and nothing being true and nothing being true and- sometimes it comes out better that way anyway. Filth sells sex, sex sells everything. Cells, everything.
I want to write with a titanium pen, filled with oil harvested in the most sadistic fashion. Blood diamond encrusted in haze of wonderful filth. Adaptation adaptation. It is human to use what is before us. Be it needle, line or..., or the combustible bile of the belly of the beast we infest. Swarm. Let the megalofeliacs bludgeon as many seals to death with their hardons as they like. More blood in the blood bath. This whole Iraq war is I... I’m sorry, highly derivate. I mean have you read the Vietnam shit? What have they not heard of post modernism? Oh my god, pull this car over. Syphon the gas and try to pass out in the back. Time to commit.
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