order.

Quaint stops on the side of the road, diners cater to the new world vision; post modern acolytes find new prayers, a decent meal for less than six dollars and a bottomless cup of coffee. Eat of the body, ingest enough caffeine, and anyone can wire themselves a demon.

     

Another happy employee of this place comes by and begins my never ending cup of coffee and sets down the silverware before moving onto her next disciple. I collect my thoughts of the day, the routine is the same, get some food, write some words, and the questions keep on pilling up.

     

“How ya’doin tonight?” Sophie is one of the many waitresses here; she’s a priestess in this twisted ceremonial metaphor. Over the years of my attending the service here, she has always been a constant fixture, like the plastic ferns and the yellowed portraits of local birds. “Haven’t seen ya’friends here’ya inna long time.”

     

“Yeah, I know.” I smile and nod. I could probably write her life story from the simple conversations I’ve heard her having with the regular patrons. She’s friendly with me through association; I’ve never attended one of her conversational confessions.

     

“Ya’al’ready order?” She’s is a mother of three boys and is married to the father of the oldest.

     

“Yes. Thank you.” I almost ask her how she’s feeling; three months ago Sophie went to the doctor and they found something “not to pleasant.” The question simply sits in the back of my mind as I take another sip of coffee.

     

“O.K. hun, your food should be ready shortly. I’ll go check.” Up until that unpleasantness she worked all week, after that, she appeared sporadically and a whole month passed without her appearing at all.

“Thank you.” I remember the time her sister had to put her kids up and Sophie adopted them; I could ask her how that has been working out. Her eldest son is playing football in high school; her husband got a promotion, she used to know someone who knew someone whose mother slept with Frank Sinatra. Sophie is already behind the waitress station before I could even consider any of these questions.

     

She moves on. Another table with other disciples. She finishes her priestly duties and takes their menus and heads for the kitchen. The plates reflect an exhaustion that is blossoming at a point where the brain meets the spine. Sophie laughs an intimidating guffaw that upends the chatter between most of the patrons. Whomever they are, their time just moved a little easier.

dead letters for living people

the indulgence.

It’s a turbulent nausea

washing over the skin,

as if drowning and unable to swim,

in a stagnate pool of cigarette water.

     

The air outside is a sickly wet

convulsion of humidity that gets inside a person

in a slow creeping fashion.

The barflies

rested their wings

on greasy barstools.

     

Each counting off the days by

the amount of distilled liquid

floating in their skulls

         

I cursed them out and

told them they were dead already,

 just too stupid to bury themselves.

              

The impulse was strong,

I had to get out,

seek alternative belief systems

that have an opened bar

and quiet drunks.

The road is a wicked succubus

that twists and writhes in

delirious gyrating rhythms,

she’s in a sexually orgasmic

epilepsy against the protests

of a digestive system in vertigo.

My feet catch a grown man,

he’s crying over his infant whose stomach

is starting to swell from malnutrition.

    

A meal is the new Holy Grail.

The golden calf has died

on the streets of America.

When nothing is left, can you still believe in Jesus?

Snake dancing Christian fundamentalists make

their way around me and this man.

     

These righteous worm creatures

slither from street to street

establishing religious

franchises in mini-malls.

          

They step over the child gasping for air.

These prosthetic angel’s,

who view me, this man,

and his dying child as vermin

feeding on the rotting carcass of the

golden calf that they pretend

is still alive.

The sickness of the drink passes

but the perverse contamination

clings to my skin.

     

How much were we promised,

while we banged on the doors of gods

demanding answers,

justifications, and understanding?

          

While others of our own kind

were cutting away pieces

of our souls from our backs.

Selling the pieces as trinkets to those who

didn’t even have the

courage to step up to the door and knock.

Groping the final few steps to the house,

hoping that I haven’t lost my keys, yet again.

     

A shirtless Uncle Sam is sitting on the porch,

his flesh hangs in sheets from the bone.

He’s got a beer for me and one for him, he’s waiting.

Giving up on everything

else around him,

and waiting for the dream,

himself and me to fade away.

dead letters for living people

the yellow house.

The place had an almost religious feel to it, although I, at the time, did not know why.

It could have been that I was never allowed inside?

Always kept outside waiting in the car with my father while the women of the house went in.

Maybe it was the fact that my mother and her mother, even my aunt when she was privy to attending, got dressed up in clothes that were more suited for visiting relatives on Sunday than going to the market.

It would be years before I would be told its secret. At my young age it was merely a house, a yellow two story, the entrance to the second story was in the back, and its stairs led up the side of the building. The matriarchal leaders of my family climbed those steps each time and vanished inside, leaving the ignorant males alone in a car to wait.

After the ladies went on their way, I would move up to the front seat of the behemoth 76’ Mercury Montego Wagon. The seats were green leather and the size of my bed. My dad would let me sit on his lap, I would pretend to drive; my brother would stay in the back confined to a car seat.

With me at the wheel, we would be driving to non-existent places, until my brother got restless, then he would take the seat of honor.   

I remember one particular time, it was spring, and the sun was beginning its descent behind the neighborhood houses. We waited outside the car, me on the enormous hood, my brother in my father’s arms.

The car was parked underneath a giant elm, its branches tumbling down, caressing the roof of the monster. The heat generated from the engine felt good and comforting, the air cool and new. The sunlight came trickling through the branches and played with us for awhile; the new leaves beginning their rebirth.

I remember asking my dad who was it that lived in the yellow house, why did we return here so many times? He didn’t answer my question and suggested we go for a walk while we waited.

This house became an omnipresent artifact to my childhood. The place kept its stories to itself and hinted at something greater. People would walk up those same steps as my mom and grandmother, and people would leave. They were all of them mothers and grandmothers of other families, all of them with secrets.

I was never able to discern a pattern to our visits to the yellow house. I knew when my mother got dressed up after work and my grandmother put away her usual housecoat and sandals for a skirt and shiny shoes that we were going. I would always take some toys to help pass the time, although I never played with them when we got there.

The trip to the yellow house became a time to be with my father. He was a man that had his own secrets and hid them in work, at the job, on housework, in the garage. Distant and apart from everything that made up my life. Here was a time when he was made human and capable of laughter and attentive compassion.

Always when the women returned, they came with hushed conversations, whispers between the adults. Within the yellow house, they had learned more than what was known before they went in, and always it was sacred and profound.

josephmcabral.com

dead letters for living people

ogres.

The boy broke free of his dream. He could smell the remnants of dinner on the cooling air. There was an electric hum throughout the space as if a great beast purred at its own pleasures.

     

The boy cursed the inadequacies of the night-light and broke through the warmth of his bed. Making his way through the dark room, pausing periodically as if to still the air.

     

The night rustled amongst itself, clouds moved to adjust themselves, and the moon shone. The boy wanted to scream out at the night as his unprotected toes made contact with the edge of the dresser. But he held his breath and didn’t make a sound. Wincing at every step, he made his way to the window. Looking through the vampire light that illuminated the yard, he was comforted by what he saw:

     

A monument to the vast collection of refused and discarded artifacts from the neighborhood. It stood as a summer’s testament to scraped arms and bloodied fingertips, as a boy’s sanctuary from reality. The primary edifice of the structure was a refrigerator box that the McNally’s had tossed away back in May. The boy had contemplated the old refrigerator that soon made its way to the curb, but after several futile attempts and one near death by squashing, the boy settled for the box and the aluminum door to the old monster. The door worked as a suitable foundation; it lay on its interior side, nestling into the soft earth of the back yard. The exterior smooth surface was perfect to rest the box on, keeping the fragile cardboard away from the dirt. Red bricks from the Paiva’s chimney, remnants from when they demolished it, were used as anchors.

From this, the eventual structure was built up and formed. Pieces of vinyl siding, which were scraps from when the Dubois’ had their house done up in June, were made into a roof canopy. 4x4 planks that were used in building his parents porch, also in June, supported the covering. An exterior wall was made of sheets of plywood that were left in the shed from last year’s hurricane scare. One of the sheets had a small square cut out along its edge; this worked as a suitable doorway. A light blue sheet of plastic covered this main entrance. It was once part of a large tarp that had covered the Fitzpatrick’s pool. The boy had cut away the deteriorated parts, using the better parts for the entrance and as added covering on the corners of the plywood sheets that didn’t meet well. Rusted nails he had stolen from Timmy’s garage fastened much of the structure; he could never remember what Timmy’s last name was. He never took the newer, shiny nails and spent many hours banging away at the twisted subjects to make them useful once more. He also used twine, which he unraveled from a large ball that he had received from Mr. Rosalino in trade for some help with the old man’s yard work.

     

“It will be all right Donald. Come back to bed now, it’s late and you got school in the morning…”

“Shut up.” The boy nearly tore open the silence, but he kept his voice to a firm whisper. “Don’t call me that. I told you a hundred times. You don’t know me. You don’t call me that.” The boy argued into the night stillness, causing tiny rips in the precious silence.

     

He marched back to the cooling softness of his bed and took hold of what resembled an amalgamation of dryer lint and yarn with legs and googly eyeballs. It had been a present from an undesirable relative on his last birthday. His mom had placed it beside him when she tucked him in for the night. The boy threw it across the room. He nestled himself back into a safe position with the blanket over his head; it was his only protection in case vampires came for his blood while he was sleeping.

     

“Good night Donald.”

     

“Shut up!” The silence was torn.

     *

     

Morning came with all its passion and burning brilliance. The boy sat at the breakfast table awaiting his meal, his mom moving about frantically with her hands full with bowls, milk, phone, pens, and bananas. The boy watched as she quickly dismissed the tiny spills on the floor and wondered why he couldn’t get away with such carelessness. He observed the routine that had been forgotten in the summer months of sleeping in and eating lunch for breakfast.

     

“Do you think we’ll have to do all that someday?” The boy spoke.

     

“Naah, if mom didn’t do all that…well…I don’t think she would feel like mom.”

“I don’t know. It looks kind of scary and all.”

“Yeah…I know.”

A large stuffed animal in a gorilla costume sat beside the boy on two large phone books and ten smaller mail order catalogues. Its bobbly head, due to the lack of stuffing around its neck, lay tilted to one side in a contemplative pose.

     

The boy’s mother was carrying two bowels of cereal and one banana. She sat beside the boy on the opposite side of the thinking monkey, placing a bowel and the banana in front of the boy. He slid the banana to Mr. Dobalino, the gorilla.

     

“So…did you sleep well last night sweetheart?” The boy’s mother reached over and moved the banana back to its original placement. The boy simply nodded in a positive while stuffing his mouth with magically sugarcoated symbols of a dead civilization. “Really? I heard you moving around last night. You were doing a lot of mumbling. I even heard you yell.” She placed her hand on his head, comforting him and straightening his hair. “I mean…remember what Dr. Kanine said.” She coerced his head so she could look at his face. “If you’re having a hard time sleeping we need to know.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the banana and moved it back in front of the pensive gorilla. “If you don’t tell us what’s wrong, how will we know what to fix?”

     

“It’s not my fault. That stupid alien keeps bothering me.” A colorful array of pastel tinted milk and brightly colored words decorated his response, as well as the table.

     

“Donald! What’re you doing? Look at what you’ve done.” His mother had taken a new turn to revulsion while she wiped his words off herself and the table. “How many times we have to tell you? Don’t talk with food in your mouth! What are you talking about? Alien?” The woman reached over the table moving the banana back beside the now half empty bowl.

     

“The one Aunt Lucy gave me for my birthday.” The boy placed the banana, once again, by Mr. Dobalino. The gorilla now seemed less in thought and more in caution as the weight of his head was sliding him off his perch.

     

“A toy? You’re talking about that plush toy?” She threw down her napkin, reached once more for the banana, and slammed it down hard in front of the boy. “It’s only a toy Donnie.”

     

“No! He doesn’t know me. I don’t want it to say my name,” he pleaded with a dead audience.

     

“Honey.” The woman took hold of her emotions, focusing her attention in a concerned tone. “What are you saying? Are you hearing things again? Is that it? Donnie, you have to tell mommy.”

     

The boy became aware of where this conversation was going. He closed his eyes and began humming a constant sound through his teeth. He had seen a kid do this in Dr. Osako’s waiting room. The boy wasn’t sure how this worked, but it worked for the kid in the waiting room.

     

“Donald stop that.”

He continued till he ran out of air and stopped for a refill.

     

“Donnie, please, stop that.”

     

After two breath-fulls he was growing tired of the ordeal and was about to stop.

     

“All right. All right.” She was defeated for the moment. “Go get ready for school please. We’re going to be late for your first day.” The mother grabbed the bowls and the banana in one clearing arm motion. The boy did not move. “This has to stop Donnie. I mean…Jesus! It’s only a stuffed animal.”

     

“No! It’s! Not!” He grabbed Mr. Dobalino and ran for the door, bursting out into the glow of the new day.

     

The boy ran around the house and to the back yard. As he approached the fortress he fell to his hands and knees, scurrying inside.

     

Tiny beams of light pierced the seams and gaps of the structure. Here was silence, no voices, no fears and the boy enjoyed the place in between it all. Mr. Dobalino had fallen on a pile of Legos and was once again contemplative.

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

“No! You said you would go with me. You said you would come for the first day.” His eyes grew blurred with the rising fluid.

“You know when you get back we’ll build a better spaceship than the last one. This time we’ll make it so good we’ll go all the way to Mars.”

“What if I ain’t…?”

“Go. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” The gorrilla appeared to be gesturing a compassionate smile.

Reluctantly he crawled out of his own reality. Before he left through the blue curtain he looked back, “Be careful, I think there are ogres about.”

The boy made his way out and headed for the car. His mom was waiting, and the look on her face told him it was not going to be a quiet ride. He looked up at his bedroom window, noticing the alien creature peering down at him. Approaching the car, he looked toward the street corner where the older kids waited for the bus. 

He was right; the ogres were about.

josephmcabral.com

dead letters for living people