morning.

I decided to get up when my mind started making shadow puppets from the darkness of the room. The bed was cold. It may have been the sound of Benny moving about in the studio that had awoken me.

Somewhere between rinsing the soap from my face and brushing my teeth I became aware of the absence of nausea. A subtle relief from weeks of running from the bed to the toilet with accompanying heaves and hawls of stomach acids and dinner fragments. This morning I awoke feeling hungry and almost capable of enjoying a bacon double cheeseburger loaded with onions and pickles, my mouth watering at the anticipation of a non-existent meal. A bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch, bananas and toast with orange marmalade would make a suitable substitute.

The unlit morning was vibrant with silence that echoed through the house. Benny had fallen asleep at his desk and sending him to bed would bring on excuses as to why he had to keep working. I’ve always known him to be the type to work through difficulties. I moved about the studio, stealthily capping tubes of paint, placing drying brushes in their bath of inky water and shutting off the desk lamp. He adjusted his hunched posture only minimally before falling deeper into reluctant rest.

The clattering of the phone created a vacuum that pulled the silence toward it and pushed out its metallic resonance in the guise of the theme song to the pink panther. My response hindered on the intuition of the calls purpose.

“Liz?” Dean, Benny’s elder brother, had a tone of questioning uncertainty that left a sour taste at the back of my throat.

“Yeah?”

“Mommy died.”

“Okay.” A dry grip of tightened vocal cords brought on by Dean’s tone. “I’m sorry Dean, seriously. How’s Jack?”

“He’s in crisis mode, so its strict control and planning from him.” His voice was phlegmy and his words were being swallowed in whispered exasperation.

‘Okay. We’ve discussed this, he knows what to do.”

“Really?”

“He’s sleeping right now. I’m gonna wait

till he wakes up. This is the first time he’s slept in two days.”

“Liz?’

“Yeah?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure Jack needs help. We’ll be flying up as soon as possible so we’ll be needing a pick up from the airport.”

“What am I supposed to do Liz?”

“Don’t ask me Dean, your mom’s dead and I

already have one of her children to watch over. Figure it out, its’ not difficult. This isn’t a surprise and if it is, then you need to ask yourself what you’ve been doing with yourself.”

“I’ll make the call. I want to be the one to break the news.”

“He won’t wanna hold your hand so don’t go looking for support.”

“I know.”

“Well, still, let him sleep a few more

hours. I’ll make what arrangements are needed from here and call Jack to see where he’s at.”

“Why wasn’t I included in all this planning?”

“You were waiting for an invitation? These are your parents.”

“I just think I could have been included.”

“Now is a great time to think some more.”

     

And with the sound of the click, silence encompassed me once more. It took three breaths to gather myself. Benny’s muffled drone of rest could be heard lapping at the oncoming sounds of morning and mourning. The play on words made me giggle. I would’ve gladly have turned off all the phones to keep him blissfully unaware.

The woman, my mother-in-law, wasn’t always someone who made herself available for others to befriend. I couldn’t imagine what she had gone through these last few months. What peace she had sought had finally arrived. Benny was morbidly aware of this inevitability when the first diagnosis came over a year ago and recognized the eventuality of time. Dean held to illusions and ignorance to get through the visual decay of his only beloved parent. After the first round of surgeries Jack approached Benny and myself about a plan and Dean accused us of desiring death upon his mother, never their mother.

A siren was echoing against the sunrise. From this break came a flood of all that was yet to be endured and I instinctively felt for my yet to be protruding abdomen. Recognizing, for the first time, it was there.

dead letters for living people

josephmcabral.com

voyeur skin exhibit.

The boy drew what he saw.

     

Frail and pale,

poorly washed skin,

all the imperfections

glaring under spot light eyes.

The thin smoke

from my cigarette dictates

tendrils that outline her

in a grey and blue frame.     

The boy wants to be an artist.

His vision of beauty

and his grace of profane things

will be envisioned by his skill.

The female came to us out of expectation.

She moves and sways to

a song in her head.

A virgin, or so the legend goes,

              

Her false sense of bemusement

is only a token

that gets trades and deals

out of heroes waiting for victory.

The boy keeps on drawing

and she pretends to be smiling.

I didn’t want this to happen

but no one said a word.

dead letters for living people

sequitur

I paint.

Because I have to.

I go to work.

Because I have to.

I brush my teeth.

Because I have to.

Not always do I feel like brushing my teeth.

Not always do I feel like going to work.

Not always do I feel like painting.

But I have to.

I create.

Moments of time encased in pigments, ink, canvas, and or paper.

These are things never before seen

And never will they be seen after they are gone.

Yes, they are similar to many seen before,

Similarities in style and technique,

But none like this.

Because this is me.

I write.

Inspired scenes of the life that passes around us.

I see that life, as an artist, in composition and value.

Hours spent in front of vases and nudes in an attempt to capture that which is most ephemeral has given me the ability to watch a crowd move like the ocean, to examine the tiny gestures people act and the play of light on a decayed surface.

The words come, descriptive, symbolic, wholly nonsensical,

And I write.

Because I have to.

I work.

Odd jobs like most of you have and will,

I have work with the mentally ill.

Both adults and children.

The kind of people that hear the voice of George W. Bush telling them that the funny taste in their mouth is the blood of Jesus. 

The kind of people who ask if the trees will eat us today, with a look so sincere, that you have to wonder, has this person seen a tree devour someone? 

The kind of people who have Superman and Aquaman as best friends, and they themselves are members of their own personal Justice League.

The kind of people who hear screams of such horror and contemplation, day in and day out, that they have no choice but to scream back at those voices, just to block out what is being said.

I see myself in these people.

I don’t question what they see or hear.

I graciously take the bouquet of flowers picked by the fifty seven year old woman who spent the afternoon with Katherine Hepburn.

I may even comment on how lovely the daffodils are this season.

And I cautiously take the Ray-Gun that was given to the thirty six year old man by the unnamed government agent or the fusion bomb built by the forty two year old man out of toilet paper rolls, Kleenex boxes and snack wrappers.

I promise to put these things in a safe place where they will be returned to their rightful owners upon being discharged from the facility.

They believe me because I believe them.

After eight, sixteen, thirty two, forty eight, one hundred twenty hours,

My people leave me ragged and skinless.

I draw.

The lines are nothing more than road maps and guides out of a place that can be both brilliant and dark.

I write.

Their voices, and experiences, memories and fantasies mix with my own and I learn who and how it is to be human.

I paint.

Because I have to.

Seeing the world through the eyes of an artist

Means to see the world as sacred.

It all speaks to you in the hope that you will tell its story,

Because Artists are the myth makers,

When asked, what in the world is a Snohzberry, a wise man responded,

We are the music makers

And we are the dreamers of dreams.

josephmcabral.com

dead letters for living people