dmseay

Christ Lives was spray painted on a brick wall facing the alley. Bums sat underneath the graffiti, drinking cheap bottles of red, proclaiming it to be the blood of Jesus. Old moldy bread chunks torn apart represented the savior’s body.

They read from the book of John. Prayed and crossed themselves. Sang Amazing Grace. Drank some more wine. Gave thanks.

The mission had nothing to do with their kind. Heads of the church said they were drunks. Uncleansed in the eyes of the Lord.

Whores walked by. Men fished in the dirty river. Vagabonds turned two fish into twelve. There was no bed for them to sleep in. A stone for a pillow.

And they begged just as preachers beg. Clothes in rags. Lice in hair. Prison tattoos. A life nearly over. Waiting. They were just waiting.

The two stood apart from each other; looking at one another across a room. Refrigerator hummed and colored pictures of naked women hung on the walls. Their eyes were focused. They did not make a move.

A gun was on the table next to the old man, and a butcher’s knife was held by the son. The radio played an old Tom T. Hall song. The father hummed along. It was a song that went, And I love you too….the boy’s hands were sweating.

Go on boy, dad said. Come at me. I’ll shoot you just like I did your cousin. Blood don’t mean a thing to me. Just as soon see you dead, he told him. The old man picked up the gun.

You had no right to kill that boy, the son said. Not even out of high school, he yelled.

Shhh, Pop said. That boy was stealing from me. He’d come over here and make nice, then rob me blind. Meth heads. All they do is ruin things. Families, communities. This trailer park was a lot different before they started cooking that shit up. Kids played on swingsets in the park. Now they don’t come out at all. Moms walk them to the bus stop.

He needed help.

Horse shit. That’s what they all say. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for them, the boy moved in closer to the old man. He could smell the beer on his breath.

Put the gun down dad.

Put that knife down, the boy shook his head. I guess what we got here is a real Mexican stand-off, the old man laughed.

You shot him in the back.

He was getting away.

I’m going to walk out of here. Are you going to shoot me in the back?

Have you stole from me? the boy shook his head. Then you got nothing to worry about.

The boy opened the door. Tossed the knife on the table. It bounced to the floor. The old man picked it up. His son looked at him. Asked, do you believe in forgiveness? the old man whispered no.

He shut the screen door behind him. Got in his Dodge. The old man watched him drive away.

I looked at him and saw nothing. No hair nor face, hands, and feet were missing, too. Just an outline was all that existed. But, I felt his presence. His warmth wrapped around me. A soul I could not deny.

How long? he asked. How long have you been waiting? the spirit looked right through me. An eternity? I nodded my head in silence. Has it been in fear or love? again, silence.

These days of waiting. Long days into night. Death insight. Looking through to the other side, but scared to make that jump. It is the leap of faith, he said to me. Letting go of this world and entering a final destination where troubles are cast aside and love abounds, invisible arms reached out to me. Make that jump, he cried. Do it.

Asleep for so long. Wanting to see. To walk again. Overcoming death in this life. These dark days. Where hour upon hour the flesh is toyed with. Evil lurks.

But in the valley, it is green. New beginnings, the ghost whispered. Your days of longing will be over.

Will they? I thought. Will they? If only I could take that leap of faith.

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.