car.

     At the first intersection it dawned on me that I wasn’t exactly sure if the brakes worked properly. Benny flailed and tumbled in the passenger seat; praying in a pagan language to ancient deities that hadn’t seen the light of day since the Spanish Inquisition. The music thumped a fast paced base line with emphatic pulse rhythms that hit the back of my skull. Assuring my companion that all would be fine, that our path was divine and righteous did nothing to reaffirm his belief in me; doubt was significant here, doubt would be our downfall.

     We hit the highway at eighty miles per hour. I commanded the vehicle, passing my way through and around idle pedestrian drivers that were obviously too afraid of their lives to face death proudly.

“Benny!" I proclaimed. "There is nothing to fear. Trust me. I know fear, I live with it, have sex with it, its there when I wake up and there when I take a crap. Trust me. We don’t have to fear.” The car embraced the emergency lane to avoid a slow moving Chevy with a white headed Presbyterian at the wheel.

     His knuckles were turning white. “When was the last time you took you meds?” The question came with a forced endearing tone of someone who’s horribly disguising his true feelings.

     “I’m offended. You seek to have me sedated and tranquil in a pharmacological haze of blissful ignorance?” I pulled the car out of the emergency lane in time to avoid the concrete barrier.

     Benny began to recite his lineage and saintly patrons in a foreign tongue. “That’s not it. You know that.”

     “You don’t understand, Ben, my boy. This is freedom! I will not be constrained; nothing is getting in the way of freedom! If you don’t like the ride, keep in mind you asked to come along.” In my vindication I was neglectful of the slowing traffic before us.

     The car protested as I yanked it across three lanes and it jumped onto the off ramp. I cut the wheel to avoid the cars parked at the light,slamming on the brakes, the car raked a two-foot concrete curb and bounced onto a parking lot of an abandoned meat market. With one foot on the brake, the car rolled and Benny screamed his wife’s name along with the rest of his pagan heritage.

     The car painfully crawled its way through the lot, a metal grinding noise burst from underneath. The steering wheel, turned to the farthest point right, yet, moved straight line. My eyes fixed on the landscape before me; witnesses on foot and in their cars watched from a rosy perspective of normalcy.

     My fingers peeled from the steering wheel with sharp intakes of breath as the joints and muscles were snapped back into position; I hadn’t been aware of my own fear till now. The engine had cut off somewhere after the jump. Throwing the car in park abruptly ceased the rolling with a harsh convulsion. A homeless man, stood a few feet from the front of the car, stared at us in contemplative astonishment.

     I removed my cell phone from my pocket, throwing it onto the Benny’s lap, removed the keys from the ignition and dropped them to the floor. “Call your wife, whoever, you’ll need to get home.” I stepped out and realized a dark puddle forming beneath the vehicle.

     “Wait! What are you doing? Where you going? You can’t leave this here!”

     “Why not?” A sense of neutrality over the whole situation washed over me, why not indeed.

     “Because…”

     “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. It’s a good day for a walk.”

     “Wait, this isn’t right. We’ll call a tow, they’ll pick up the car, there’s nothing to worry about, we didn’t hit anybody or anything…”

     “Benjamin. Go home. Go home to your wife and kid.” I looked around, nothing looked familiar. I took to the road on foot immersing myself in the traffic and humidity of exhaustion. 

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dead letters for living people...

pink for a day

While visiting day birds from out of town

I discovered that they had made me a dress.

A gift of remembrance for when they die.

     

I attempted to explain that I

was not of the gender that they

had so meticulously

and craftily weaved me into.

          

A one piece,

knitted,

pink,

jumpsuit.

They were unable to comprehend

this logic that I was divulging for them

and instead offered me

mud pies and tea instead.

We ate the pies and they spoke of death,

death of those around us 

and before us

          

I hoped it wasn’t contagious.

Visiting people this familiar

with St. Peter’s office door

isn’t advisable

for the weak minded.

     

The conversations blew in and out

with the curtains. 

I found

myself eyeing the garment.

          

The fabric,

the care in its stitch,

the way the threading weaved itself

into a magical second skin.

The color seemed to shimmer

from tiny silver flecks

embedded in the knit.

          

I had no choice but to try it on.

I ignored the itch,

the constricting and pulling

of the fabric around my waist and chest.

The day birds cooed and cawed

over their creation,

commenting on adjustments

that were needed

to make it even more be-fitting

of its wearer.

I explained that the gender issue

had become a mute subject,

they quickly had me remove it

so it could be properly fixed

according to their standards.

I was assured of its prominence at my next visit.

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dead letters for living people

home

I am ripped from a self-medicated coma to the sounds of lawn mowers and screaming children outside my window. It all comes to through a haze thin membrane that still has its tiring hold on me.

     

I have this image of an infant calf being born, dazed and disoriented, hanging from its mother’s cunt, still encased in the protective sack that is now suffocating the defenseless and senseless animal.

I am that stupid animal.

     

The terror that is going on outside my window continues uninterrupted by my own problems. They are demons, mutated and corrupt and I am convinced that they’re doing what they’re doing all to awaken me. My eyes are being stabbed to pieces by the white flash glow that is burning from outside.

I am that stupid animal, opening my eyes for the first time and desperately wanting to return to where I came from. Tumbling face first to the floor, the fall is cushioned by a pile of dirty laundry and crumpled pages.

     

My brain is still flailing in the suffocating membrane and my eyes are devoid of depth perception; I’ve awoken too soon. I took the last three pills several hours ago, can’t remember which ones and although my muscles are still deeply under the chemical currents, my mind has chosen to wade through the murky parts; dragging the rest of me along like a snail with a cracked shell.

     

One of the broken doll children from next door is crying in a teary eyed retaliation to get her mothers attention. Her brother is attempting to convince her that she should stop crying and that he didn’t mean whatever it was he did. The empty headed child believes her brother and the mother never shows. I’m convinced the boy forces himself on the young girl.

     

I fumble for leverage from whatever is within reach and shuffle my way out to the living room. Benny is manically typing away at the computer, his face stern and in deep concentration. Only his eyes express the exhaustion his body is feeling, while his hands race to keep up with his mind.

     

I make my way to the kitchen, hitting the play back button on the answering machine while grabbing for a bowl and a spoon. The first message is from my mother, casual call, checking to see how everyone is doing, she sounds like she’s trapped in the machine. I pour myself some cereal and milk as the second message begins. It’s Lenora, Gisele’s boss; she wants to speak to me about scheduling an appointment for the position I applied for over a month and a half ago.

     

On the fridge is a statement from the car insurance company, last months payment is overdue and their threatening to cancel the plan. The car’s been sitting in the driveway for two months, I take down the notice and crumple it into the trashcan. There’s a bill from the towing company, who brought the car home two months ago, complaining of insufficient funds in my checking account. There is a note from Gisele, it’s addressed to me, she says that I haven’t done anything around the house, and that I need to start helping out with the daily maintenance of the place. She concludes by adding that if I ever touch the thermostat again she will be forced to inflict grave bodily harm to my person.

     

I carry my bowl of soggy cereal to the couch, Benny has fallen asleep at the computer; his hands are still typing away. My cell phone begins to madly vibrate on the coffee table; my brain decides to answer it, my hands take a few more seconds to comply.

     

“Yeah?” 

My voice comes out in a dry husk, my throat constricts at the dehydrated cords, forcing out some sound.

     

“Hello?”

     

“Yeah.” 

I swallow some mouthfuls of the sugary milk to ease the strain.

     

“Is any one there?”

I can barely make out Gabriel’s voice over the fading signal.

“Yeah! What?” 

“Hey Don. I thought you’d be sleeping.”

     

“So why did’ya call?”

     

“Figured I’d leave a message. Anyways, there’s an opening tonight at the gallery, was wondering if you’d want to come along?”

     

“You in it?”

I sip another mouthful of color coated milk.

     

“Yep. Got two pieces in the show.”

     

“What time?”

     

“It starts at eight. I can pick you up if you want to go.”

     

“Yeah, sure, why not. Be here around seven thirty.”     

     

“So… are you doing all right?” 

His question is out of place and his voice is attempting to hide the fact that he knows something, or wishes to know something.

     

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

I finish off the milk, leaving the cereal to fend for itself. Benny has awoken and he’s shutting off the computer and packing up his papers. 

“Listen, we’ll talk later all right?"

I dismiss and move through muscles dipped in syrupy sedation.

"I gotta go. O.K? Be here for seven thirty and I’ll see you then.” 

I drop the phone in time to catch Benny before he walks into his room.

“Hey, what’s up?”

    

Benny doesn’t say anything and walks into his room as if I weren’t there. Chances are he wasn’t conscious enough to hear me and chances are he chose to simply act as if I weren’t here. I get up and throw the cereal mush in the garbage and add the bowl to the growing pile in the sink.

     

I grab a bottle of Hydrocodone and dump its contents into the palm of my hand, there’s possibly ten or fifteen pills, and after weighing the decision of exactly how many will work, I decide on four as a decent number. It’s about nine a.m. now, which gives me enough time to sleep this off and be mobile enough to meet Gabriel at seven thirty. I throw the covers over my head to shield myself from the continual radiational flash burning through my window and get myself comfortable for the waiting. As I begin to feel the medicine burning behind my eyes in its fuzzy warmth I can hear the empty-headed girl next door begin to cry once again.

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dead letters for living people...