short: ride

“Is it supposed to rain today?” the thin man asked as he boarded the bus. Pluming clouds of grey loomed overhead.

“Flip a coin,” the driver answered. “The man on the radio said there’s a 50% chance of thunderstorms today.”

“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,” said the thin man, his words trailing off.

“You know, bein’ a weatherman is the only profession in which you can have a 50% success rate and still keep your job! If I had that kinda rate takin’ you folks from point A to point B, I woulda been outta job a long time ago!” Jackie the driver responded.

Jackie had been driving me from point A to point B for three years, and I don’t think I ever saw him without a smile on his face. He was a good man. You felt it whenever he greeted you boarding the bus. Three years, five days a week he was my morning commute, yet I knew practically nothing about him. My imagination filled in all the vacant spaces: he was a happily married man, married his high school sweetheart twenty-five years ago, had two kids, a dog – a postcard sent from the American Dream.

But I had no idea if those things were true.

I’ve never been one to strike up a conversation. I can’t do small talk. I’m lucky if a single coherent sentence stumbles from my lips. Maybe two. Then it’s silence.

When I do speak to Jackie or respond to a fellow passenger, it’s always the mundane and brainless. Like the weather, current events, or “the game last night.” Bullshitting has never been my forte. And I always avoid personal topics. The morning following my dear mother’s death – the very next day, a Thursday – I, as usual, was at the bus stop, at 9:15 sharp. I stood there inside the fiberglass shelter. Waiting for Jackie. Inside of me was a million pieces of broken glass, but I’m a man who revolves around the burning sphere of routine, habit. So, I was there, dressed in my freshly pressed suit, polished shoes and overstuffed briefcase, and at 9:18 Jackie pulled up.

“How ‘bout them Cubbies last night? Is there any hitter in the bigs who can hit Ricky Delgado right now? Guy is on fire!” he said.

“He sure is, he sure is. Cubs could ride him all the way to the playoffs!” I, feigning enthusiasm, responded as I took my usual seat next to the third window. I sat there, silently. Watching people board. Watching people exit. Watching and listening to Jackie, I just sat there, waiting for my bus stop at the Crown’s King Hotel, which was exactly one block from my employer, Thompson and Associates. I was a file clerk there. Eight hours a day I filed manila folders according to last name, department, claim type, resolved cases, whatever the code indicated, I placed it in its respective vault. I suppose the job fitted my personality. Other people answered phones. Others met clients. I was in the background of it all, thumbing through stacks. Silent. Dust. Back there somewhere. “You’re going to be screwed when your company goes digital with its records system,” some guy once cracked. I couldn’t formulate a response, so I just chuckled and smiled real big. Small talk has never been my thing.

Anyway, Thompson and Associates did go digital, and three weeks thereafter I was out of a job. Just like that. The following Monday, however, I, like some loyal lapdog, took my place inside that fiberglass shelter. Pressed suit, the shoes, the briefcase, all of it – I was there as if nothing had happened. I’ve always been a man of routine, and I don’t know if it was fear, an unwillingness to accept my circumstance, or some internal breakdown – hell, it was probably all those things – but I just couldn’t not be there that Monday morning and every morning after.

I got off at the Crown’s King Hotel and walked. During those weeks I walked down every downtown corridor. I’d kill a few hours at some coffeeshop, burn a few more at the newsstand, and sometimes, I’d take a taxi and just ride.

But this morning – exactly seven weeks after Thompson and Associates canned me – I took a cab to the airport. The airport was like a monastery of Americanism. Clean. Efficient. Towering over everything. The only people inside its soaring glass walls were those conducting business. Everyone inside had a purpose, a reason. Except me. I suppose I came there to find a role, a function. And if I couldn’t find that, at least I came dressed for the part. When you’re a professional-looking businessman, no one stands in your way, because you’re above them, all of them. Your tailored suit. Your cufflinks. The gold watch. Even your skin is an extension of those material products. The flesh on your face looks like a perfect slab of tenderized meat, and you’re ready for the heat – you’re waiting for the heat – because you’re a motherfucking businessman. I wasn’t one of them, but I worked under them, and I saw how people looked so small in their shadows. But out here, or killing time at the newsstand, or exchanging words with a sexy intern at a Starbucks, no one knows who crawls under that slab of meat. No one knows I’m an unemployed file clerk whose denial won’t allow him to accept his reality. I look important. And that’s all that matters.

Like a drunk throwing darts, I randomly picked an airline, then picked a city. “When’s the next flight for Boston?” The ticket agent smiled, produced clicks on a keyboard and told me, “Actually, it appears we’ve got one leaving in fifteen minutes. Would you like that plane, sir?” I paid for the ticket and immediately began running for the appropriate concourse. Through the terminal I ran, and I know the onlookers must have marveled at me, the running businessman, struggling against time to make a plane that would make a connection that would produce signatures that would
make
money.

I made my flight, and now I’m here. In some hotel. Hell, I can’t even remember the name of this place. In the sprawling metropolis, all the hotels look different from the outside, but once inside, everything’s the same. The fake art on the walls change, but everything else is the same. You open the door and the same wall of air-conditioned cold wraps around your body. You separate the curtains and see the same indistinguishable skyscrapers. You find the mint carefully placed on your starched pillowcase.

I’m near the Logan International Airport, it’s one of the busiest airports in the country, and the constant sound of 767s arriving and departing is like an invisible medicine; I think about all the faces on those giant jets, all those people with some place to go, to be – destinations waiting to be grasped. A loved one waiting to be hugged. A hand waiting to be shaked. Personal exchanges of mutual significance. When the jets are whirring and the walls of my room struggle to remain intact, I close my eyes and lose myself in the sound, and sometimes, I convince myself I’m an important person
I’m an important person
I’m an important person
with a destination waiting to be greeted.

Behind that heavy hotel door and under the glow of flashing television advertisements, I’m here. Under the soaring jets and behind the hotel drapes, I’m here. I’m closing my eyes and trying to believe that this isn’t me. And this isn’t happening. I want to believe that the veneer I’m living under is just the collapsible scales a snake has shed. The real me is inside that fiberglass bus shelter, waiting for Jackie. But I can’t convince myself that’s reality. See, bullshitting has never been my thing.

I think I’ll leave this room. Tighten my tie. Spit shine my wingtips. Take a cab. The cabbie will ask me “Where to?” And I’ll respond, “I want you to take me to the edge.

“Take me to the edge of all this,” I’ll say, looking through the oily fingerprints of my backseat window. “Take me to the edge of the flashing lights, the people, the destinations. Take me to the edge of it all, and I’ll get out. I’ll go over it. Jackie’s waiting for me.”

xx

short: pinned to you

My first crush happened when I was twelve years old. Her name was Julie Richards, and as with most crushes, it was less about love and more about infatuation. I remember the first time her colors splashed across my eyes: it was the first day of 7th grade physical education class, and we were all dressed in heather grey PHYS ED DEPT shirts and those dreadfully short red polyester shorts. Mr. Burris was calling attendance, and when I heard him announce “Richards, Julie,” my head inexplicably turned in her direction.

And it was her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, free of curls and free of flaws, straight as the trail of a million raindrops.

And it was her green eyes, open and swallowing the gymnasium’s freshly waxed floor.

And it was her small budding breasts, waiting for the season of teenage menstruation to bust then burst from her bosom.

And it was her naked legs, those bare legs falling from those red shorts. The fluorescence from the rafters gave her pale thighs the glow of an Old Testament virgin.

But her right thigh was marred perfectly by a birthmark, which resembled a rosebud more than a spot of pigmented skin. I marveled at that mark. It became a strange emblem, a secret mark that, because of its placement on her thigh, showed itself only in gym class, only in those polyester red shorts. Whenever her eyes were away, at the free-throw line or pulling her body heavenward at the curl-up bar, I would gaze at it – the contrast of concentrated color against pale flesh, an island pinned to forever, surrounded by a sea of pale milk.

My crush, that infatuation, was not hatched out of a wicked desire; despite the hormones that were beginning to course through my capillaries, I didn’t want to fracture her shell of virginity. I sought only simple pleasures seeded by pure motives.
I wanted fingertips like feathers
to skim the placid surface
of that pale ocean.
Touching: an exchange of electrical impulses

foreign flesh to foreign flesh

and blood rushes

to the surface

and neurons burn as stars eclipsing death.

Breaking my impossible vision was the squealing of sneakers from the gym floor. Freshly waxed, it glimmered like a vast sliver of quivering water, but the gleam would eventually diminish under the soles of children,
children running
children dodging
children jumping
bodies moving,
eventually erasing the sheen.

Last week Julie Richards, now 29, accepted my Facebook request, but I don’t know why. I don’t even know why I bothered sending the request. I suppose I had the irrational idea of catching up and confessing the foolish feelings that occupied my life that one summer. But as that confession took form, as I plotted its points and outlined its shape, it became more absurd, idiotic. Throughout our school years we never spoke, we maybe exchanged glances in a crowded hall a few times. Our only bond was “class of ’97,” which, perhaps, was also her sole reason for accepting my request.

I didn’t write on her wall, nor did I send her a message. I didn’t want to trespass into her life, even if that intrusion took the form of a disposable electronic message. But I did look through her photo albums. I saw her romantically embracing a tanned, handsome man. A few pages later I saw her wedding photos, the groom being the same tanned man. I also saw sunny vacation photos. And babies who had become children. I saw all the moments she wanted to capture forever. And then I found a picture of Julie, alone, just her face, center frame. The hair, the eyes, the lips – it was Julie, but it’s strange how time impacts the face. The essence remains unchanged, but it’s those subtle nuances that remind you the end is getting closer; it’s taking form in your bones and on your flesh. It’s the eyes and the flesh around them. Something changes. It’s that star eclipsing death.

Lost in the pages of my sophomore yearbook there is a collage of photos. Pictures of cluttered hallways. Pictures of high school dances. There’s a photograph, taken during lunchtime, in which Julie’s face is colored bashful. She appears to be avoiding the camera, but her eyes are staring into it, those giant green eyes swallowing the life on the other side of the lens. And I’m there too. I’m in the back, several tables away, and I’m looking in Julie’s direction, but the camera was too far. My face is a blur, out of focus, barely recognizable. But I’m there.

On the first day of phys ed class the freshly waxed gymnasium floor shined so brilliantly I could nearly see a perfect reflection of my face. But children passed through, people passed over that surface and the shine dulled, the luster lessened, and at the end of the semester I saw nothing of my face when I stared into the floor. It was a blur. Unrecognizable.

The passage of time changes everything, and it fulfills its purpose in doing so. I wanted to write Julie, but not to confess a childhood delusion, but to paint a picture of my perceptions, share that image with her, and determine if the shadows created by my existence – our existence, however disparate – are unique, or shared through some strange chord that resonates under everything.

The forces of age have changed your body, Julie. The spoils of children have displaced the love for your husband, who now works to support a dream that is no longer his own. He crunches numbers and disconnects from conference calls while you toil in fields of daffodils and dandelions. When the moon is high and the children are sleeping, your husband’s putting away his last call, but where are you? What are you?

I remember that rosebud pinned in pigment to your thigh, that strange emblem from nervous youth. Our bodies have changed. Our faces, aged. But we’re still strangers, treading floors that fail to reflect.

xx

short: the wheel

Strange dreams lately. Last night I awoke at 2AM with the taste of county fair cotton candy on my lips. The taste of sugary cobwebs lit a memory, a moment when I was eight years old.

My father and I were at the county fair. Swallowing my hand was my father’s hand, a hand I remember well: it was worn and weathered, like an old baseball mitt, and the dried calluses that canvassed his flesh felt old and alien. Corn dogs and elephant ears saturated the dirty air, and greasy pedophiles and hair spray-stained beauty queens wandered aimlessly. The flashing lights and spinning machines dazzled my eyes. I wanted to escape the rusting anchor of my father’s hand, but his hold was strong; his stride, however, was weighted, slowed by the cancer digesting his brain.

Three months before that night at the fair I realized something was wrong with my father. He was tending our overgrown garden, and I was out there, with him, fascinated by the massive lapping leaves of a cabbage, when I heard him yelp – a sound I had never heard from my father – and collapse. Invisible forces were jolting his body, and I yelled, “Mommy!”

I yelled, “Mommy!”

And I yelled, “Something’s wrong with daddy!”

I ran from the wild overgrowth.

I ran from my father’s convulsing body.

I ran for help because something was wrong.

After the ambulance driver removed my father’s body from the garden, my mother told me, “Daddy’s sick.” The white-washed walls and sterilized smell of hospital corridors would become very familiar after that day in the garden.

Away from the garden and hospitals, my father and I roamed the fairgrounds. We approached a balloon-and-dart game, and my father, pointing to the prize board, asked me which one I wanted. “I want the giant penguin!” I responded excitedly. My father would have to pop eight balloons with ten darts to claim the prize. He exchanged four tickets for ten darts, of which only two would strike their target. A plastic dinosaur was his consolation prize.

Whenever I think about that balloon-and-dart game I become angry. Angry because I feel as though the game was rigged, fixed to take advantage of my dying father. Other times that anger turns to my father, because, aware of the advanced stage of his disease, I don’t know why he chose a game dependent on hand-eye coordination. I’ll never know how badly he wanted to win that penguin for me, but I know his failed attempt haunted him. For him, that giant penguin represented something greater than a token from the county fair – it was a closing verdict on his fatherhood. He failed to come through for his son = he failed as a father.

We turned our backs on the penguin and walked toward the looming Ferris wheel. All day my father had promised me a ride on the giant machine. He spoke of it as if it were some miraculous apparatus built by the gods of the universe. In those passenger cars were his ghosts, memories of his childhood, memories of his father, memories of a life that was slowly crawling away from his weakening grasp.

Six tickets bought us a ride, and inside that rickety carriage we sat, the rotating wheel making circles, endless circles. Each time we climbed to the top my breath would shorten, my pupils would dilate, and I would try to swallow as much of the panorama as possible. I saw street lamps burning in foreign towns. Glowing billboards selling the promise of American dreams. I saw stars and distant galaxies. I saw everything from that carriage.

The spinning wheel began to slow. The passenger cars began to empty. And I looked to my father. Tiny beads of tears rested in the crevices of his eye sockets. “What’s wrong, Daddy?” I asked.

No answer.

Again, “What’s wrong, Daddy.”

One of those weathered mitts patted my lap. He couldn’t look at me. Couldn’t speak. If he had tried, he would’ve fallen apart. I saw his chin tremble. I looked away. I tried to find a distant billboard that promised to cure my father’s sickness. I couldn’t see one.

“It’s slowing because the ride is over,” he managed to mutter.

Two weeks later, away from the garden, away from the hospitals and away from the giant wheel, my father lay in a bed inside a room that I cannot remember. I was bedside, watching him as though I were waiting for some miracle to wash over his flesh and erase all the bad things from the past few months. Through the cracks of his eyelids, a flame struggled to remain lit. I wanted to believe that behind those eyelids was the flickering picture of a Ferris wheel, decorated with a million multi-colored light bulbs, all blinking, flashing. All this as his heart fluttered. All this as there were circles. Endless circles. And in those circles we sat, overlooking the creeps and queens, the wild weeds of overgrown gardens, the seeds of our failings, the roots of our glories, all the ghosts and colors of our existence.

The cracks of his eyelids narrowed. The rise and fall of my father’s chest slowed. It’s slowing because the ride is over.

Strange dreams lately.

xx

short: death

Eleven days after I asked my psychiatrist about the dead animals I found myself staring at my mother, silent in her casket. Those eleven days prior, Dr Furrow asked me if I had had any personal encounters with death, such as losing a close friend or relative. No, I told her, I've never lost a relative or good friend to death. Dr Furrow proceeded to tell me that adults who lived a youth free of death usually develop a strange curiosity about death, which is why my highway eyes seem glued to road kill.

Gazing at her frozen face I chewed my lips until they bled, and as I heard all those stories and saw all those sad people and accepted the realization that my mother was gone forever, I realized I was no longer curious about death. I still catch myself staring at mangled road kill, however.

xx

short: oil at three

When you are a stranger in a foreign town everything is clean. No one knows your past glories and all your mistakes have been cleared. You hide your scars under sleeves long and give every passing stranger the youthful glance that optimism brings. But something isn't right. The strangers avoid your blue eyes; they seem to catch sight of the red spider webs spread across the white. Bloodshot eyes in a town of undisclosed secrets present an incalculable proposition, so you hope to pass like a ghost. But like a ghost, these souls see straight through you.

As you explore the strange city through the cracked windshield of a '74 Pontiac Firebird, it occurs to you that some, no, most of the scenery is not completely alien. Time has turned its tides over this terrain, but its skeleton remains the same. The sharp bend ahead recalls the tale you heard as a young child: Bobby J, on the night of his sixteenth birthday, entered the turn with too much speed and too much youth, piercing the guard rail and sending his father's Buick into the ravine; the thick foliage swallowed a vehicle and the life of a sixteen-year old boy. And up around the bend on the right, at the entrance of a new subdivision, once stood an abandoned house, which, every Halloween at midnight, was visited by three ghosts – the ghosts of three children who were killed by their mad mother one hot August night. So the story goes, anyway.

Yes, you know these pictures. These narratives are familiar. You grew up here. You knew these streets as a child; you heard the stories, you fought the battles of juvenescence and you danced through the sprinklers of blamelessness. You remember the school bus stop on the corner, next to the tree stump. And the first time you kissed a girl: it happened just beyond the border of Melanie's back yard, in the corn field, where stalks of corn reached for the sky and provided coverage from wandering eyes.

As you drive these displaced yet familiar streets you wonder what new memories are being constructed. The face in the rear-view mirror is twenty-nine years old; these streets no longer belong to you. They never did. The asphalt and blue skies were yours as corn stalks are to a September breeze. After dust has made itself from your bones the memory machine will continue to churn here, and a new generation will place itself inside the confines of this strange machine, and as the passing seasons ripen their bones for death, only then will they realize that they are not the creators; they are not the artist gracing his canvas with brush; and they are not the writer weaving tales from unsteady fingertips. No, they are merely witnesses; observers of a crime innocent in nature yet stunning in its vastness, leaving not a single soul vindicated – not every eye will be stained by this offense, but not a single eye will remain unchanged; these unborn children will replace the previous cast of onlookers and observe the wondrous workings of the machination. Indeed, despite history and all of its implications, every body entering the confines of this strange machine will charter his or her own path to death, notching glories on the breastplate of pride, hiding mistakes in the shadows of uncertainty.

We are all terminal. Temporary is the disposition of human existence.

But you've no time to ponder such things. You are only passing through. A stranger in a foreign land with a face aged beyond its twenty-nine years, you aren't looking for philosophical idiom, just an all-night hotel with free HBO. A suitcase of dirty clothes lay in the trunk. A destination unknown peels itself from the asphalt and clings to your tires. This '74 Pontiac is burning oil at 3AM, and the sun may never rise again.

xx

short: crime drama

There are some things you don't talk about. Some things you don't talk about because you either don't have the strength to face it, or you want to forget about it, erase it, be done with it.

Jack and I don't talk about it. We don't talk about Cody and the incident that occurred eight years ago. The three of us… it was supposed to be simple, simple and clean, fast and easy. But things never turn out the way you had hoped. It wasn't simple. It wasn't clean. Not fast and easy. No shots, we told him. We told Cody no shots; the guns were merely props, extensions of our costumes. We go in, get the money, take the Buick to leave the scene and ditch it once we're outside city limits. But Cody was fucked up, high, coked up – something – just fucked up. We enter the bank, Cody enters the bank, he practically rips the door off the hinges and hits the counter like some goddamned rabid dog. The plan was already shit. Jack and I, we couldn't believe what we were seeing, but we – Jack and I, that is – stuck to the plan. We got the tellers to empty their drawers and Cody… fuckin' Cody kept waving his gun like it was a goddamn flag on the Fourth of July. But then he stopped for a moment. Everything stopped for, it was only two, maybe three seconds – it was as if something broke inside him. His demeanor changed. He was tranquil, in a perverse sort of way, when he steadied his gun on the teller, the blonde one, and calmly said, "No. No. It's over." And the trigger. He pulled the trigger. I remember the deafening sound of the shot; Christ, it was loud. But my deafness had the life of that very gunshot – short, brief – because everything stopped, it was as if all the gravity in the world was centered on that pretty teller lady when she fell… she just dropped… like slow motion… falling through all that silence. Jack and I came to, realized we had to get the fuck outta Dodge, so we turned, we ran out of the bank – I remember the sunshine and fresh air, it all tasted like freedom, and freedom never tasted so sweet – and we got into the Buick. As Jack sped off, I looked back to see if Cody was giving chase. He wasn't. But he was standing right outside the bank's doors. As Jack drove faster, Cody got smaller, but I saw him put that 9mm to his head. Didn't hear anything but I saw him fall. He fell and the Wal-Mart plastic bag that held his loot caught a gust of wind and the money went flyin'. I told Jack – real calm-like – Cody just shot himself. Jack didn't flinch, just kept driving. But what he and I didn't realize at the time was, Cody wouldn't have the opportunity to rat us out. And with a loose cannon like that, you didn't know what he might say. One man's suicide is another man's blessing, I suppose. Jack and I ditched the Buick and went our separate ways, and until yesterday, we hadn't spoken to each other since then. That day… it was like something out of a movie – the whole thing.

It was odd… yesterday, our reunion… the way it happened. I was in Indianapolis for the Indy 500, and night before the race I'm at some piss-stained rat-hole of a bar downtown. I'm finishing off my fourth whiskey and coke when I happen to glance over my shoulder – trust me, when you've done the things I've done, looking over your shoulder is an involuntary action – and see Jack. Even after eight years his face was unmistakable: the square chin, thin lips, heavy forehead.

I invited him to have a seat and bought a couple rounds of whiskey shots. Jack was always a whiskey man. We bullshitted about the weather. Talked about the upcoming race and the Cubs futile pursuit of the pennant. We didn't speak of the lost battles, the defeats, the bank job.

"It's crazy, Tommy. Crazy how much can change in eight years. I got married four years ago. Me and Michelle got a couple of kids. Tina, she's three, and Melissa, she's nine months. Best goddamn thing that happened to me was meetin' Michelle. What about you, Tommy?"

"I've been with a gal named Erin for a few years now. We got a girl together, little Lena. She's a cutie."

By that point the cute bartender had poured another shot for me and Jack. I swallowed it. I'd had enough whiskey that evening that the liquor just rolled down my throat. It didn't burn, didn't bite. Over our heads nonsense flickered on TV screens.

Some twenty minutes later, Jack glanced at his watch and said, "Shit, Tommy. Gotta go. Thanks for the shots." And he looked at me. I remember that – the way he looked at me. He looked at me as if I were a crooked car salesman, as if he knew I was hiding a beaten transmission, the engine sounded good, but under the hood was a blown piston.

He was right. Jack always had a way of reading people, which is why I stayed seated at the bar. Because if he had seen me walk he woulda noticed the limp. And Jack being Jack, he'd ask me about the limp, "Hey, you ain't walkin' right. What happened, Tommy?" he'd ask me. And I would have to tell him about the vacation three years ago, the accident on I-75, and admit that Erin and Lena? They ain't here no more. And I'd have to describe the torment of hauling luggage back home from a vacation that never happened. Seeing the things the mother of your daughter packed away: a disposable camera to capture memories that would never surface, the long strands of dead brown hair wrapped around the bristles of a useless hair brush, and your daughter's teddy bear – a companion she couldn't sleep without.

There are some things you don't talk about. Some things you don't discuss because you either don't have the strength to face it, or you want to forget about it. Erase it. And be done with it. After Jack thanked me for the whiskey, he gave me that look and walked away. We didn't shake hands, didn't even say goodbye. Just wished each other good luck. My unsteady eyes followed him through the crowded bar until he passed through those old, heavy oak doors. I then got up from my seat, limped to a nearby window and watched him drive away. We'd shared so much, yet so little. I followed those red tail lights until I couldn't see 'em no more.

"Hey, Tommy, you want another whiskey?" I heard the cute bartender ask.

I stood there at the window, hoping to see Jack's car reemerge from the night. It didn't. "Yeah, doll. Pour me another."

xx

short: i was jeremiah. i was jerome.

I awake, open my eyes and immediately recognize a glaring fact: I do not recognize this ceiling. No, this is certainly not my bedroom. The unidentifiable pictures clinging to the walls, the LPs scattered across the wood floor… these things must belong to the body next to me. Once my eyes see the small scar etched on her cheek I recall everything:

Evin, she said her name was Evin. Yes, Evin. My response upon her introduction: "That's an interesting name." "It's Evin with an i, not an a like the boy's name," she said. I met her at The Caboose, Religious Knives was on stage and I don't remember how, but we found each other. And we drank. We drank a lot, and after Religious Knives had emitted their final sound I found myself in a cab with Evin alongside. She was kissing me – the moisture of her hot, whiskey-saturated breath coated my ear, my neck – and she told the driver where to go: her fifth-floor apartment off Ellingwood. We climbed the stairs and, once inside, drank some more until our hot hands were climbing the foreign constructions of our bodies. We fucked, and here

our bodies crumpled. Here in this bed. And last night is a story I've never experienced. I've always thought of myself as far too reserved, too protective of self to just give myself away and let the unfamiliar body of a stranger erode my defensive proclivities. But here I am.

It feels like afternoon… the late-afternoon sunshine beams through the window and I ponder my departure. Leave a note, a telephone number and offer a final glance at her sleeping body then slip away? Do I wake her and leave a kiss goodbye? You sentimental fuck, what happened last night… girls like that don't engage in alcohol-fueled sex with men they consider friendship – never mind relationship – material. I slowly crawl from her bed and scour the floor for my clothes. As I pick up my jeans, coins fall from a pocket and ping loudly off the hard floor. I freeze.

Enter groggy voice: "Hey, handsome, where are you going?"

"Oh… hey… good morning… I… uh… not sure what the, uh, typical protocol for post-last night, kind of thing is. I mean, I'm not trying to be a dick, I just don't know what you—"

She giggles. Her laughter breaks the ice that has locked my body. Heartbeat slows. Shoulders relax. Tension eases. She says, "You don't have to leave, if that's what you're worried about, Elliott."

I express my relief upon accepting her obscure invitation to linger. She slides into some panties and throws on a tee, then begins brewing coffee. As the scent of java blossoms throughout her apartment I'm struck by the pictures. Pictures encased in frames. Pictures taped to walls. In the living room. The hallway. Kitchen. Bedroom. All of them biblical in nature. There is the sacrifice of Isaac. The blinding of Samson. Apostle Paul. Moses smashing tablets. Christ waiting for death. All of these pictures yet not one a photograph of family or friend, just myths.

She must have noticed my attention towards the pictures: "Don't worry. I'm not a Jesus freak. Just have a thing for biblical paintings. Those there, next to the lamp, those are all Rembrandt. My favorite is 'Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem.'"

The old floor of the apartment creaks as she walks from the kitchen to join me. I'm looking for Jeremiah when she says, "This one. Right here. It's my favorite because you can practically feel Jeremiah's lament, his sorrow; he knew something horrible was going to happen – he'd known for years – yet he was powerless – useless, really – to do anything about it. And back there, in the shadows, Jerusalem burns as the King of Judah stands away from it all; his sons were slaughtered then his eyes were gouged from his face. And Jeremiah… sits there… helpless. Have you ever felt helpless, incapable of stopping something that you knew was going to

destroy

someone close to you?"

"Yeah, I mean, I think everyone has experienced that at least once. Some unstoppable doom. I sense there is someone, something under the surface here… behind all of this. What's up?"

Abruptly: "I think the coffee's done. Sugar? Cream?"

I tell her no, I prefer my coffee black, and she's gone, away from me and into the kitchen. I hear the clink of ceramic coffee cups. The soothing sound of tumbling liquid. I watch her fill the cups, and her eyes, her eyes seem unusually focused on such a simple task. This isn't a focusing gaze; this is an attempt to push something out, to push something away.

"Yes, Elliott, I have been powerless to stop… to stop a storm, a tide of madness." She stands there, in the kitchen, her eyes turned downward toward the cups of black coffee. And I'm standing here, I haven't moved from this spot because I'm staring at her – I can't avoid it – and considering my next word, my next movement, but I'm frozen. She's lost within something that neither I nor anyone else can empathize with, a scabbed memory that is always just a recollection away from being torn and bled anew.

I approach her cautiously, place my arm over her shoulder and ask if she's OK. She's slow to start, but details eventually flow. She tells me of a man named Daniel, and while she doesn't state how she was linked to him, I gather he was a love interest.

"And then everything changed. He was inside a gas station – apparently the gas pump wouldn't accept his credit card – when a man came in and held the place up. Guy put a gun to Daniel's head, threatened to kill him, then hit him with the gun. He played dead until the cops got there. Days later he couldn't stop thinking about what happened, he had nightmares and was afraid to go anywhere, scared of a passing stranger attacking him or some shadow leaping from the darkness. His doctor said the feelings and fears were normal following a traumatic event, said the nightmares and terror would go away after a few weeks. But they didn't. Things… things only got worse. He lost his job. Daniel used to play chess – he won several tournaments – but not anymore. He couldn't even comprehend the game. The rook, the pawns, bishop… the pieces no longer made sense. And things just fell apart. Hallucinations. Drinking every night.

"I'll never forget when I had the realization, when I recognized that his life was over. I suppose I had realized his departure weeks earlier, but denial kept that reality hidden. I pulled up to his house and as I approached the front door I happened to catch a glance of him; I could see him through a window, and he was naked… on the kitchen floor, rocking back and forth… his lips were moving but I couldn't read them, I couldn't hear what he was saying. And his eyes… behind his eyes there was something… someone else… or maybe no one… I don't know, but as I stood there watching him I remember thinking – it's so weird because it's as if it were yesterday, so vivid – I thought I was looking at some exhibit: there he was, behind glass and encased inside his own madness, a tragically bizarre display that I could no longer comprehend; this sculpture that I once recognized – this person that I loved – had been twisted, transformed into… into… this figure that existed on some foreign plane of existence… incomprehensible. And I… I just wanted to climb inside that bubble of distortion and tell him, remind him who I was – and who he used to be – and tell him, I was there… tell him, Don't leave me, Daniel, don't leave this… this. You're sick, that's all, and I'm here. But no one could reach him, and as I stared at him through that window I realized that he was gone, and even if he did come back, he wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't recognize his mother's name, much less her face. He wouldn't remember our trip to Oregon, he wouldn't remember the significance of the insignificant, you know, those things that only possess meaning when they are shared between two lovers. Yes, I saw it there, that day. I was Jeremiah and I was powerless, useless. The tide was coming and I… I couldn't stop it. It had already arrived."

"Geez, that's quite a… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, uh, open such a painful—"

"No, it's OK. Don't be sorry. Really. Here, you better drink your coffee before it gets cold."

So I drink the coffee – the bitterness bites my tongue. And she leaves me, the floor creaking as she walks away. And from her bedroom she calls my name.

I'm in the doorway and she has stripped herself of panties and shirt. She's naked on the bed and tells me she has a secret. "Come hither. Come to me."

She's below me, sucking my cock. I know I should be into this, but I can't stop staring at the picture next to the light switch. It's Leonardo's "St Jerome in the Wilderness." Jerome lived in the desert for four years with beasts and scorpions as his only companions. And I'm amazed – bemused, really – at how little our species as evolved. We wander, seemingly aimlessly, and subject ourselves to caustic relationships with others and with the face that greets us in morning mirrors every day.

In Jerome's right hand is a stone – an object he pounded against his chest until raw. Self-mutilation as an act of devotion. And Evin – Evin with an i, not an a – she's below me, sucking my cock, not as an act of love; no, she's sucking me as a vehicle to escape something I'll never understand. She's self-mutilating, but the damage isn't physical; no, unlike the pink mark on her cheek, this scar will leave its trail on her consciousness. And me? I know her sexual act means nothing, and I'm no closer to achieving what I really desire: a meaningful relationship that is based on platitudes and sentimental gestures. And I know that, while I may currently be an object of focus for her, I'm as forgettable as the road kill you pass at 60 mph. I could make her stop, pull her away from my waist and tell her, No. But I don't. Because her blowjob is my self-mutilation. I'll convince myself that her "act of devotion" is a testament of love. My cock is her cross and this is her crucifixion. And she loves me. She does. This is what I will tell myself. Later. When I'm alone in my shit apartment and petrified of a future of TV dinners and Internet porn. And I want to tell her, Evin, I love you, and I know we haven't even known each other for 24 hours, but I love you. And I see a future – a future that includes you and me. Together. We'll spend a lazy Sunday afternoon at some downtown coffee shop and… and it will be perfect. Like a fantasy life that flickers on the silver screen. But no. No. That isn't reality. I'm wandering like Jerome, damaging myself as some twisted method of worship. And like Jeremiah, I know what's coming. But I push it out. Push it away. Evin is sucking and I'm coming.

And I can't get the bitter taste of that goddamn coffee off my tongue.

xx

short: new mom

You used to sing to your mother every night. Your mother: she was only forty-three when she was stricken by some rare form of brain cancer; and your mother: she was only forty-five when her spirit surrendered to the cancer. Her body remained, however. Blood still circulated. Her chest rose. Her chest fell. But her spirit had been exorcised from her body by that ravaging disease and the life-sustaining drugs. The gravity that forces waves from the ocean was indifferent to your mother. She was as lost as a ghost voided of attachment. "Just gone," your father used to say.

But you sang to her anyway.

As she lay there under sheets starched white, you would sing a lullaby improvised and her body… her slowly vanishing body was powered by machines and tubes and her solemnly still face always abided to the words and melodies that your 23-year-old lungs emitted.

So you sang of empires in the sky…

So you sang of angles and love…

So you sang of a memory that shall never die…

So you sang of death and life, spring blossoms and the winter solstice…

You sang as the sky swelled with the sun and sang as the stars forfeited a cratered moon. You were convinced the lullabies penetrated the haze that surrounded her. You saw something in her eyes. An indiscernible word found itself on her lips when you sang of death's sacred kingdom. And despite the final judgment cancer had given her, you found yourself occasionally disregarding the undeniable and believing she might pull through this.

"Just gone," your father used to say.

And so you sang. You closed your eyes and sang about your first fall from your My Little Pony bicycle. Your knee was scraped. Blood dribbled from your elbow. And tears dotted the pavement under your tiny body. Your mother was there with a kiss for your cheek and a bandage for your elbow. She consoled you, and you just wanted to go home.

And this is what you sang about until a monotone pitch rose from your mother's bedside. Just gone.

Two nurses tended to your mother. Of course, there was no saving her. Cancer had finally won. So you left the room and took the elevator to the hospital lobby. As you exited the elevator, a middle-aged man and little boy waited to board. On strings from the boy's hand floated brightly colored balloons – someone was a new mom.

It was a warm July night and the mosquitoes were biting and the kids were cruising with music blaring. You walked alone down the sidewalk with a head awash in memory and thought. Perhaps you were trying to recall the final words of the lullaby you were singing before she passed. Perhaps you were thinking about the last time you heard your mother laugh. Or maybe you were thinking about that old photograph on your dresser; the one of your mother in her wedding dress in 1985. She looked so young, so happy, so free of the burden she would ultimately bear many years later.

You don't remember what you were thinking during those despondent hours, but you remember stopping somewhere along the sidewalk and looking up at your mother's hospital room window. You stared. You waited. For something. For a signal. For some manifestation of deliverance. It never came, of course. (Faith disappoints eternally.) But you realized why your father had buried the memory of her long before she actually passed. It was easier that way; when she finally died, it wouldn't be so difficult to deal with. Wrestle with the demons while they are still alive and you've won most of the battle.

"Just gone," your father used to say.

xx

short: bathing in light

ex-child

If you turn off the radio, silence the screaming faces flashing on the television, close your eyes until all goes black and think, you can remember the moment; that time in your life when everything made sense, when your body and spirit rested upon the mad pulse of a life teeming with wild anticipation and possibility. You were young, just a child, and your untamed eyes saw life as an open field with no fences, rolling hills and flowing streams pristine.

You wanted to be a baseball player. A fireman. An astronaut. Not even the sky would limit your fascinations, your aspirations. Your life wasn't lived through the jaded prism of some bitter man's philosophy. You remember: you would snicker at the cynics and disregard the pessimists, and you vowed to yourself and your ideals that you would never become the man you buried in November of 1997 (your gravestone shall share his last name).

But as you sit alone in the corner booth of some seedy bar drinking cheap whisky and smoking stale cigarettes, you catch yourself. Your eyes are sinking in the most loathsome of seas and you are watching a couple – a young couple drunk and in love – laugh about some meaningless anecdote. It's nothing, really, just a laugh about some mishap in Chicago, but their laughter is pulverizing your sense of identity into the swollen wooden floor under your feet, and if you strain your eyes and strain the sickening laughter and empty jukebox music from your ears, you can see particles, atoms, the essence of your being dissipate, up, up, and away, through the beams bracing this bar, this structure, specks and spots, fragments of your being dissolve, up, up, and away, through the ceiling and into the night sky until they become….

You used to laugh. You once had a woman on your arm. And you can recall enjoying the bite of whisky on your tongue.

But you don't laugh anymore. The pretty woman is gone. And now, you can't swallow the liquor quickly enough.

"Another whisky?" the young barmaid asks.

You gaze ahead. The loathsome sea is rolling, swallowing your brown eyes, and you struggle to stay afloat and wash the wretched ambience of the bar from your senses, and the barmaid, she could be a million miles offshore; you wave her off as a grunt crawls from your belly.

You collect your coat and head for the door. A cold drizzle is slowly rolling out of the sky and you can hear the nearby interstate churning with traffic.

A cold bed awaits you, and soon you will be there, alone and in all that darkness. You will stare at the strange stain on your ceiling and, inevitably, you will recall a certain time in your life – a moment when you saw rolling hills and open fields; a time when everything made sense because you failed to understand the mechanisms of modern life. And you will think about the world outside your bedroom: the traffic streaming across America's highways; a young couple exploring each other's bodies for the first time; a barmaid retiring to the waiting arms of her boyfriend; and a winter's mist glazing your father's neglected tombstone.

Indeed, you know what awaits you tonight.

So drive home. Turn on the radio. Ignite the faces waiting inside your television. Feed your senses the sweet opiate of distraction. Forget that you used to live in a world of logic and color. And shun the reflections, those distant memories of the boy who carried the marrow of the world inside his precious heart.

That child is now a sullen man whose blood beats black.

And things don't make sense anymore.

xx

no title

It's strange how quickly your life can change. One second you are reminiscing about your first date with Jacob, the love of your life and the man of your dreams, and the next your body is broken and upside down, and you are trapped in the wreckage that used to be Jacob's car -- and Jacob, the man of your dreams and your fiance, is unresponsive in the driver's seat.

Is this happening? Is this really happening?

"Jacob? J-Jacob? Are you... are you OK? Jacob? Jacob! Answer me!"

The disconnection notice on the dining room table.

The milk spoiling inside your dirty refrigerator.

The doctor's appointment on Tuesday at noon.

And now, the blood trickling from the gash in your arm has ruined your lovely flower print dress.

And never mind the broken teeth clattering inside your mouth.

These responsibilities and cosmetic blemishes are trivial when the realization of death splashes across your mind and floods the senses.

Your left leg is throbbing and your arms are two shattered antenna capable of receiving only one signal -- pain. All is quiet but for the high-pitch tone reverberating in your ears.

Am I losing consciousness? Is this death? Are these my final moments? Here? Tonight?

Through the silent pain and confined chaos of this moment a memory you buried long ago is resurrected and reigns inside your mind. For a few fleeting moments you are still, you are at peace. And you remember October 23, 1995. It was a Monday and you were at Community Hospital to visit your ailing grandmother. While you were in that hospital room your grandmother touched your hand (she was too weak to hold your hand) when she spoke to you. The cancer had ravaged most of her mind, so she was prone to nonsensical ramblings, but as she spoke about the Blizzard of '47, something happened. Her eyes focused onto yours. Her face flushed with blood. And she stopped speaking about the snow and power outages. You remember the feelings: everything got quiet and gravity seemed painted with tension. "I'm so grateful you are here, Melissa. Next to me. Here. God has graced me with 93 years, and even though I'm so thankful for every second of every year, I... I'm not ready to go because... well, no one really knows what's on the other side. I just don't want to die alone... I just want someone there... someone by my side when the lights go out." And then she died. Right there. Right in front of your 15-year-old eyes. Her eyes were locked in some eternal gaze that only she could comprehend.

And now, here in this car on this cold January night, you understand. If you have to die, you don't want to exit this world alone.

"Jacob! If you can hear me, make a noise, move, just please do something!"

Nothing.

You attempt to remove your seat belt but it's futile: your wrists are shattered. And you...

You never thought it would end like this. No, not like this. The essence that is life is slowly crawling away from you, out of reach. And death begins its slow march inward, inside this crumpled heap of metal.

Is this happening? Is this really happening?

Your eyes gaze ahead through the cracked windshield. The car's engine is dead but the headlights -- the lights Jacob brought to life -- are burning and Christ, the beams are bright as the sun and the flakes of snow passing through the beams flash and twinkle and you think to yourself

my god, those are the whitest snowflakes I have ever seen, and those floating frozen diamonds trigger a memory and

you forget about death and dying and life and living and that fucking doctor's appointment on Tuesday and this memory is the most vivid thing you have ever experienced and it's happening again in some capsule that's soaring through the darkest corner of the cosmos and you are

there. With Jacob. And you see him and he isn't broken or bleeding and he's holding your mitten-dressed hand and inside those wondrous blue eyes of his you know it: I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this person. And his breath is a mist climbing from his chapped lips, and he tells you

"I love midnights in February. Snow covers the earth and the ice... the ice traps everything and there's something in the air... it's like a void or a vacuum and everything is still and... I want to kiss you, Melissa."

and there, in that park, you two shared a first kiss. The way the moon light illuminated the snow was magical. There, in that field of angels -- there must have been a thousand snow angels birthed from the tiny limbs of a thousand children -- his lips touched yours and his warm breath felt like a moist fire. And it filled your body with a radiance that could have powered a galaxy of stars. Blooming. Exploding. A splinter of feathers marked on your heart.

And you awake. The cracked windshield. The snow. You. Silent Jacob. And the agonizing stillness of the unknown.

"That night, Jacob, the night of our first kiss, in that park with the snow angels, I... I knew I was going to spend the rest of... the rest of my life with... with you."

Your eyes are locked onto something, an eternal secret that only you can understand. And everything in your vision begins to bleed: the whites bleed into the blues and the reds are absorbed by the greens. And you can hear a sound: someone or something is screaming. The sound soars over the frosted hills and cuts through those bare, cruel trees of January. Perhaps it's an ambulance's siren racing to your rescue. Or maybe it's your grandmother calling your name,

because no one wants to be alone

when the lights go out.

xx

rosemary and david

Rosemary is in the stairwell on the seventh floor of some downtown parking garage. She's gazing out the window -- a frozen witness to the bustling street below. The high-priced whores are wearing miniskirts and displaying flesh; their lips are painted red and glow like the streaming tail lights of passing cars. Methamphetamine beauty queens scratch their arms and ache for a black market remedy. And the men ... the men are wearing cheap gold necklaces and K-Mart cologne ... the men searching for one-night stands and easy pussy.

Flashing neon signs and passing headlights illuminate the sidewalk souls like some bizarre holy pageant -- a carnival of creeps and down-and-outers, desperate spirits searching for a momentary taste of deliverance.

All those people, those creatures ... they look so beautiful, Rosemary thinks to herself. I wonder what it's like to be someone else, something different.

Rosemary reaches into her pocket for her stash of stolen pharmaceuticals. She pinches three of the solid white snowflakes until they become powder and sprinkles the particles on her tongue. She swallows, ingesting the pixels for pain.

\\\\\_/////

It's an August midnight and my bedroom is boiling. My skin sticks to the cotton sheets and I wonder where that girl is. The girl I met two nights ago on the 14 bus. Her pupils were two giant black holes swallowing light and shadow. And she said her name was Rosemary.

"That's a nice name," I told her. Indifference absorbed my petty compliment.

Rosemary. Rosemary's face was unmarred, clean of makeup and her black hair was tangled -- a beautiful mess. She got off at 17th and Kingston, but before she left she scribbled her telephone number on a bus schedule and said, "Here. Give me a call sometime. You know, if you're, like, bored or somethin'."

Her dilated pupils. Her jittery movements and jumbled speech. Her somber solitude. She was obviously under the influence of some chemical, but, nonetheless, Rosemary intrigued me. Behind those eyes and trapped inside her ribcage was a story. A story of pain, regret and irretrievable love.

I crawl out of bed and search my cluttered desk for that bus schedule.

"Here it is. Rosemary -- 555-0661."

I pause and ponder: she was such a fucking wreck, will she even remember me?

"Fuck it," I say and dial the number.

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary is in the stairwell on the seventh floor of some downtown parking garage waiting. Waiting for the chemicals to infiltrate her bloodstream. Rosemary is waiting to become something else. Her eyes are closed and she's waiting to shed her skin and slip away when her cell phone rings. She slowly opens her eyes.

"Mother fuck. Who the hell is this?"

She doesn't recognize the number, but she recognizes the feeling creeping into her bones. The feeling of home. The feeling of comfort. Numbness.

"H-Hello?"

\\\\\_/////

After several rings Rosemary finally answers my phone call. Her speech is slow, unsteady.

"Rosemary? Um, is this Rosemary?"

"Yes ... yes ... yeah, this is Rosemary. Who ... who is this?"

"Hey, it's me, David. You know, we met a couple nights ago on bus 14? I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

\\\\\_/////

David. David. Bus 14. Who the fuck is David? she thinks to herself.

"Uh, David. Yeah yeah, David. What ... what's goin' on?"

\\\\\_/////

Christ, she doesn't remember me. I knew this phone call was a mistake.

"Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd give you a call, you know, see what you're up to. So ... what are you doing?"

\\\\\_/////

"What am I doing. What ... am ... I ... doing," the words trickle slowly from her lips. "Just hangin' out downtown. Watching the royal parade of freaks and shit."

\\\\\_/////

"Oh, OK. I don't know, you want to get a drink or something?" I ask. A shot in the dark. An act of desperation.

"Um, yeah. Sure. Why not. I'll be ... I'll be outside, next to the Empty Caboose. I'll ... I'll be waiting for you there. The Empty Caboose. OK, David?"

"Yeah yeah, that's cool. The Caboose sounds good. Any bands playing tonight?"

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary can't feel the cell phone in her cold hand. Rosemary can't feel the stifling heat in the stairwell.

"Um ... you know, I don't even know if a band is playing. I'm ... I'm kinda out of it. It's been a rough week, you know? "

Poor Rosemary. She's a tattered and sedated rag doll on the seventh floor of some downtown parking garage and she's agreed to meet some stranger named David.

\\\\\_/////

I say goodbye to Rosemary and throw on some blue jeans and a black t-shirt. I don't know why I called her. She's practically a stranger and here I am, preparing to meet this person for drinks.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask my reflection.

"You've always been a vessel for trainwrecks," my reflection responds.

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary is descending the stairwell with unsteady knees. Each step is a deliberate and concentrated movement. She trips but catches herself on the second floor railing.

"Fuck fuck fuck ... two, just two more levels. Guess I should take one more for good measure ... for ... for this David."

She crushes another pill and her dry tongue absorbs the fine snow. A window is her mirror and she attempts to straighten her tangled hair and smooth out the folds in her pants. But some creases cannot be pressed away.

"Oh, darling, you look like the pristine queen of shit ... shit ... but you feel ... zero ... z ... zero ... and therefore you are beautiful ... a chemical princess," her reflection speaks.

\\\\\_/////

I find a parking space and walk two blocks until I see the Empty Caboose. The sidewalks are crawling with people, creatures slithering through this hot August night. Their eyes are glassy from bottled spirits, their voices loud, boisterous.

And then I see her -- Rosemary. She's seated on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette. Alone. She gazes straight ahead as if she can see through the sea of drunken souls to some distant shoreline.

"Rosemary?"

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary hears
A voice
A sound
One million miles
Away
"R o s e m a r y ?"
She breaks
From her gaze
And looks
H e a v e n w a r d
"H e y,
I t ' s
M e,
D a v i d ."

"O h
H e y
D a v i d
C a n y o u
H e l p m e
U p ?"

\\\\\_/////

Jesus, she's a mess. Her cold hand grasps mine and with shaky knees Rosemary rises.

"You OK?" I ask.

"Mmmm, no. No, David. I'm not ... I'm not OK ... and I'm really sorry, all right?"

"That's OK. Judging by the looks of you, I don't think getting a drink is a good idea. Am I right?"

"Oh, do I look like shit? I must. I ... no, a drink is not a good idea. I ... I would, however, like to get away from these god damned drunkards."

"Yeah, me too. How 'bout a bite to eat ... some coffee?"

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary
Pauses
Her eyes are
Fixed
And she sees herself
Running
Running
Running through a field of polyethylene flowers
And trampled valentines
My love, Rosemary, my love for you
Will never die.
"You're wrong
You fucking lied
To me
You lied
To me
You mother fucker," she mumbles.

"I-I'm sorry?"
A sound interrupts.

And Rosemary awakes. Coherence strikes.

"Jesus. Jesus. I'm sorry, David. I ... I got lost there for a moment. I'm so sorry for making you come down here. I'm such a ... I'm such a fucking mess. You must think I'm a piece of shit or --"

"No, Rosemary. I don't think you're a piece of shit. And you didn't make me come down here. I came ... I came because I wanted to, OK?"

\\\\\_/////

Our eyes connect and those giant black holes begin to swallow me.

Until she turns away.

And this sidewalk is crowded with men who smell artificial and women who smell like feminine products.

"You want me to take you home?" I ask.

"No. No. Home is not ... not a good place because home means my dickhead boyfriend ... ex-boyfriend ... whatever. Chris -- that fucking asshole."

Poor Rosemary, I think to myself.

Poor me. I've always been a shipyard for sinking vessels, I admit to myself.

"Look, David. I really do appreciate you coming down here ... for me -- this deplorable, worthless ... I feel like a whore asking you this, but could I ... could I just crash at your place?"

\\\\\_/////

She slips
Away
Again
And Rosemary
Is just
Looking for refuge
And those little white snowflakes
Don't work
Anymore.
Rosemary just wants to be
Someone else
Something different
New flesh stained
With someone else's problems

\\\\\_/////

How can I deny this stranger? This girl? But she's a wreck. Broken. (And you've always been a shipyard for sinking vessels, David.) Broken.

And I'm ... I've been broken, too. By different methods. By different hands. And behind her eyes and trapped inside her frail ribcage is a story -- a story I recognize. A tale the pen of my existence has written over and over and over and ...

\\\\\_/////

David unlocks the door to his apartment and Rosemary trudges through the doorway only to collapse on his couch.

"Are you OK? You want some water or something?"

"Hmm? No ... no thanks. I'm sorry about ... about this ... about me, OK?"

"Don't worry about it. Really. Let me get you a blanket."

"Blanket ... yeah, that would be great."

Rag doll Rosemary curls under the blanket. Fabric for refuge. Clean cotton to conceal herself from a world constantly collapsing.

\\\\\_/////

I cover Rosemary with a blanket and she's gone. Sleeping.

I seat myself on my recliner and turn on the television. An infomercial flickers on the screen. Some man is selling a plastic product that will make life easier. More manageable.

And I stare at the shrouded body on my couch. Her pale face and tangled black hair rest on a pillow.

I think about my life.

I think about Rosemary's life.

Such a beautiful mess.

All of it.

All of this.

And the man on the television tells me operators are standing by. Waiting for my phone call. Waiting for contact.

And we're all just shots in the dark. Ghosts of desperation searching for a momentary taste of salvation.

xx

in december

It was 95 degrees
And the brilliant blues and radiant reds were bleeding
From billboards and graffiti-stained alleyways.
I was searching for a used sedan
With low mileage and pristine plastic
And that new factory smell.
The hood ornaments glistened like chrome plated saviors
Planted in metal and crucified for consumers
Prepared to lead drivers down the predawn highways of desolation
And into the horizons of redemption and reclamation.

It was 95 degrees
And I was searching for a used sedan
But I found her --
She said her name was Shelly
And she looked like an ornament of salvation --
My menstruating Christ
And she looked like an ornament clinging to the artificial
Limbs of indoor trees in December.
She was a Christmas light
Blinking
Flashing
Blinking
And her brilliant blues and radiant reds were bleeding --
She was a victim of the stars.

"Get in the car, baby.
Let's go for a ride and hide from the artificial
And that god damn sun.
We'll have a countryside road kill romance
And we'll fuck in the backseat
In the backseat on refurbished upholstery."
"Take me," her words.
"Take me," were mine.

I drove out of the city
Away from the crystal skyscrapers and bleeding billboards.
I drove out of the city
And into the countryside of wildflowers and withering stalks
Searching for seclusion --
A site for our bodies to scream and receive
A sweet and unholy benediction.
The backseat was our carriage
A temporary womb
Where we would slither and swim
And discover our bodies and the flesh
And she was a Christmas light
Blinking
Flashing
Blinking
And I captured her in the rearview mirror
Rising from my body
Sinking into my skin.
Organs of the sex
Coalesced
And her flesh
Tasted like artificial fragrances tested on animals
And her lips
Were red, chapped from licking in the wind
And her vagina
Was an impeccable wound
That I dressed with immaculate movements
And complimentary remarks.

She was locked inside the rearview mirror
Flesh ascending from flesh
The muscles and the fat
The skin and the bones
The eating disorders and supermarket tabloid complexes
Her eyes were blank
Like arcades out of order
And she was a Christmas light
Blinking
Flashing
Blinking
Taking
And
Draining ...
Me.
Her chapped lips graced my scarred chest
My neck
My lips
And she climbed out of our carriage --
A stale and broken womb --
And disappeared
Into the wildflowers and withering stalks.

She was my menstruating Christ
Dry and out of season
Gone and out of grasp.
Her taste lingers and clings
To my tongue
Like flashing lights on artificial trees
In December.

xx