dmseay

Quiet. Nothing said. Let this hour exist. Communicate telepathically. Thoughts bounce off each other. Lips not moving. Just looking. No crimes committed. Sins weigh heavy.

I had seen her before. Long ago in church, lighting a candle. Crossing herself. Praying. The beauty of that, I thought. Real solace. Peace.

Watched as she walked in sunlight. Her apple skin shining, glowing. Following her steps. Gliding above concrete. Ascending to the heavens. Her time was done.

Hear that? he asked the stranger in his bed. Train. Comes through here every night, she placed her head on his chest. Sometimes late. Other times early, he said. Always after midnight, a finger drew circles on his stomach.

You ever just wanna jump on it? the skinny blonde asked. Just leave town? her leg crossed over his.

I think about it, he played with her hair; twisting it. Then the alarm goes off. Another day starts. The train is long gone, she rolled over and lit a cigarette. I think about a lot of things, he whispered. About being with someone you love. Some kind of commitment. Tired of the same old, he stopped.

Why did you ask me to come home with you?

Didn’t want to be alone.

Me neither.

I’m glad you’re here.

Me too.

Listening to Bird play his plastic saxophone on an autumn day. I stroll through the park and watch squirrels collect acorns and boys kiss girls. Horse-drawn carriages carry couples, waving as they pass by; blowing kisses at peasants, laughing.

Bird blows How High The Moon, and I drink coffee from a paper cup. Count change in my pocket. Hum to the tune. How high the moon? Broke again. Broke again.

Do Not Feed The Pigeons, the sign says. Jim Carroll called them “rats with wings.” I watch them as they coo. Listening to their song as Bird hits his final note. They bob their heads, and I nod.

Trane comes on and preaches Central Park West. I walk over streams and look at fields covered in picnic blankets. Men and women feed each other strawberries and cream. Drinking cups of Champagne. Smiling.

You can never look back at the past. You have to be happy in the moment, she reminds me. Yes, happy in the moment. Taking in each moment.

It’s 8:24. Twenty-four past eight.

I hear screaming through the vents. Air-conditioned voices yelling at one another. A woman saying, you don’t love me anymore, a baby cries.

There are voices in the alley mixed with hip-hop bass lines and car motors churning slowly, a chained dog barks.

Trains run through town. Steel wheels turn, and the engine blows out smoke. Vagabonds jump cars heading west. Sitting in black empty spaces. Voices ricochet off walls. Cigarette butts along the tracks. A crossing arm comes down. Bells ring.

Sirens on cop cars, fire trucks, ambulances carrying the wounded. Silence for the dead.

You don’t love me anymore, she tells him. You don’t love me anymore, a door slams. Waiting for morning.

She stood in the doorway wearing Pink sweats and holding a child. Baby girl kept pointing at the man on the steps. Reaching out to him. Wanting to touch him. Mom kept slapping her arm down each time she pointed.

Some TV show was on in the background. A man saying he wasn’t the father and a woman insisting that he was. Screaming and yelling at each other. Chairs thrown. A large bald man trying to break up a fight. Audience members cheering them on.

He kept looking at the mother and child. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. A can of Dr. Pepper sweated in his hand. Moisture formed on his upper lip.

We like to keep things quiet round here mame, he said as the kid squirmed. I heard yelling last night through the vents. I can hear everything through the vents, he winked at her. I hear your television. Your kid. And you two screaming at each other, she bowed her head.

Some of us like to sleep at night, he told her, took a drag from his Marlboro. Peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask? she shook her head. I mean, you two yell at each other all the time. And when you’re not yelling, you’re screwing, she turned red. Yeah, he said. I hear that, too. And then I’m up all night. Making scrambled eggs or eating chips and salsa while you two go at it. Sounds like you want to kill each other.

We’ll keep it down, she said. We’ll keep it down, she told him as she began shutting the door.

Could you? Could you just keep it down? I would appreciate it, she nodded, the baby cried, and he stepped off the front porch. The fat man could feel her looking at him as he walked back to his apartment. Some folks, he said. Some folks.

I know you now

Read your poetry

The ins and outs

Parts of you that were left bleeding on a New York sidewalk years ago. No one came to your rescue. Red blood turned black. Drying in the sun. A needle in your hand.

Ghosts have haunted you. Spirits from a distant past. They called out your name in the middle of the night. Made you feel ashamed; scared to go on living.

These things you did. Sins commited. Thefts and robberies. Cheating people out of money. The lies told. These were vain attempts at saving yourself from shelters, cardboard boxes, tent cities, under bridges, and church basements. Keeping up appearances at The Port Authority among travelers, tourists, vagabonds, bums, junkies, meth heads, sick people with no hope. They were robbed blind too. Slaughtered lambs.

And now I know you

I read your poetry.

Saw inside of you.

These truths.

I watched him leave. Held him as he took his last breath. He didn’t say a word, just fell to the ground. Collapsed right in front of me like a deflated balloon or a candle melting under flame. He grabbed onto me briefly, then just let go. I could see his spirit floating in the air.

Before he passed on, he told me how angry at God he was. Said the almighty took his wife from him, left him alone in this world. Hard to let go after fifty years of marriage. The old man never did.

He’d take out her picture from his wallet every day and look at it. Sometimes, at night, he would talk to her in his sleep. Asking how her day went and what was for dinner? He smiled as he dreamed.

Now he’s with her; if you believe in that sort of thing. They’re in Heaven, taking walks on paths of green and streets of gold. The two of them are holding hands. Life goes on.

Everyone’s scared of death, he said. It’s natural to be afraid of the unknown. We go through life listening to mystics or mistakes. Those that know and those that don’t. We make our choices, the fat man lit a cigarette and handed one to me. We lit them both with the same flame from a Zippo. The lighter closed with a snap. He nodded his head to the music playing. John Coltrane dishing it out with Central Park West. I want this played at my funeral, he told me. Followed by Goodbye Pork Pie Hat by Mingus, he smiled, stuck the cigarette between two teeth.

The Bible says praise him with song, I whispered, taking a drink from my pint glass.

I think that’s what Coltrane and Mingus, all those cats did. Praised him with song, he held his rocks glass to the ceiling. They knew. They weren’t scared. But, they were prophets. We’re just simpletons trying to stay on a path. Some path through Chicago, New York, New Orleans, San Francisco, Paris, into the heartland of Iowa where the children cry at night, St. Louis cats jumping to rhythms laid down years ago and muted trumpets playing in bars across this land, all over, all over. This is the gospel my son, he said. This is the gospel.

There was a cricket in the house. It chirped from a corner, though nobody ever saw it. All night long, he’d sing. Sometimes, in a fast rhythm, and then slow down as if he were performing a ballad. The high-pitched noise drove the old man crazy at first. He ripped out desk drawers, turned over the trashcan, and checked behind potted plants, all in an effort for peace and quiet. Slept with one eye opened and a shotgun on his lap in his easy chair. The old man was convinced the cricket was a monster. An invisible monster that would one day appear in front of him. He was prepared.

Days were quiet. No noise from the cricket. Just a low hum of television talk shows. Shows about cheating spouses, obese children, pregnant daughters, and fights between siblings. The old man just sat there with the gun cocked over his shoulder. His fingers sweated from the summer heat. Felt a tension on the trigger. Dreaded nightfall.

One night, as the cricket serenaded him, he had a dream. In this dream, he awoke to the smell of fried bacon in the skillet, eggs seasoned, buttered tortillas and coffee brewing. The cricket was standing upright in this vision with an apron around his waist, speaking Spansh. He placed breakfast on a table for the old man and began to sing an old traditional Mexican mariachi song of love and despair. The old man smiled as he rolled his eggs in the corn tortilla. Clapped his hands while the cricket swayed back and forth. There was no anger in him. Just peace. He tipped the cricket a ten spot. The insect smiled and bowed, then walked out the door, closing it softly with a turn of the knob.

The old man awoke to silence. No longer was there noise. No more singing. Just quiet.

Leaves fled from trees.

Christmas lights in September. A wreath is still on the front door. Leaves have yet to change.

It is morning. The old man sits on steps made of concrete; cold, wet from last night’s rain. A cup of coffee beside him, cigarette dangles from his lips. School children line up at the bus stop.

Inside the trailer, mom is making breakfast; fried eggs, fried bacon, fried potatoes, everything fried with buttered white toast. She hums along to a Dottie West song. Windows are open. He can hear her. The smell of bacon drippings linger.

He takes one last drag off his Marlboro and stomps it out in the dirt. Throws the butt in a coffee can. The old man opens the door and sees breakfast laid out on the table for him. He does not smile at her or say thank you. He simply sits and begins to eat.

Gotta go to the grocery today, she says. Want anything special? he continues shoveling the food in front of him into his small mouth. We need more bacon, she tells him. More eggs. Maybe a chicken. Sound good? he does not respond.

Being finished, she grabs his yellow stained plate. Takes it to the sink and rinses it off. Again, he does not say thank you. The old man goes back outside and sits with a half filled cup and lights his cigarette. He stares into space, mumbles to himself, and then falls over against the rail.

She walks down the steps past him. Pats the old man on the shoulder. There is no response.