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an excerpt from the novel red field…

Through the cold winter fog of the morning street, there came the rattling sound of wheels across the concrete. A small and elderly Korean man pushed a shopping cart filled with soda cans and beer bottles, their little metal sounds making an odd music. It filled the air in the verandas around the houses, almost waking their inhabitants. He was wearing a long flannel jacket, and his head was bore down and hidden underneath a long conical sunhat.

The wind broke on his smiling grimace, biting at his cheeks. He had only to make a certain take today, and then he would be fed. This neighborhood was not yet awake and most sleeping men wouldn’t mind his theft of their waste. He saw it only fit that if he was to live in a land of kings, he might just as well live off their fat.

And though the sleeping men did not resemble kings much at all, they slept with big bellies in the houses above and beyond him, full on sugar and alcohol.

And so here in the morning, was the man to collect. Most days he might make $15, but sometimes he made up to $40, if it was a weekend or a holiday the night before. The man did not drink himself but he was grateful to the men for their contributions to his collecting, and therefore could not fault them for their dedication to such a foolish and detrimental vice.

The mornings were getting colder, he had noticed. This kind of collecting became throbbing work in these few months between bearable temperatures, and his insides ached more and more each year.

But he put his head down into the wind and kept his jangling, roll and shaking music going down the street of 26th West Main.

Some of the Children called him Po, though no one knew why, and sometimes they would wake up early to listen to his cart roll by and wonder about the strange nature of his collecting. Most of the adults just heard him ravaging through their garbage in the early morning and ignored him altogether.

No one minded Po, and some of the street cats even liked to follow him down the street and out to 32nd, where’d they mew at him until he was out of sight. Then they would disband and find other things to wonder or paw about at.

It was on this morning that a chubby tabby and a small black cat followed at Po’s feet, mewing and circling. The tabby was trying to paw at an especially sparkly and wet piece of plastic that was dangling in the wind from the shopping cart. Po laughed to himself and watched their struggle.

Today’s take was not much but it was still early. This was one of his favorite streets, close to the city, but out of the way a bit, where the roar of the freeway was not too much to bear. Most the houses were old Victorians, built in the 20’s, sagging and barely kept up by the litany of slumlords they had known, but still beautiful somehow and not without their quaintness. They were almost melancholic, but in a friendly way, as if opening up the mouths of their doors as if to say, come stay in my old walls.

He liked it normally, but it had an especially electric feeling today, as if the sun crackling up from the horizon through the smog and mist was telling him something. A ray of light fell onto the nondescript apartment building to the left of him.  It was the first sign of day and maybe warmth.

And that was when Po noticed he was not alone.

A young man sat on the curb next to the entrance to the gray building. The sun cast him in glowing profile with the cigarette smoke that issued from his mouth. He was inhaling deeply, his eyes distant in the cityscape west of them. It seemed he did not even notice Po.

He must have been 26 at most, but he looked much older. He looked worn out, his face stretched and pale, his hair matted and sweaty. His lips clutched to the cigarette, like that of a newborn sow’s to her mother’s teat. His jeans and t-shirt were ragged, and full of holes. One other odd thing Po noticed, it was near freezing outside and the boy wore no shoes or socks.

Yet, still he seemed unaffected.

Po stopped his cart to look at the boy. The cats stopped with him and eyed the boy curiously.

The boy then turned his head to look at the cats and made a small clucking sound. They immediately began walking towards him, purring and mewing, and the black one jumped into his lap and nibbled at the boy’s stubble. He smiled faintly then.

Po was the first to break the silence.

“Morning,” he pronounced, breaking the still of the street.

“Oh hello,” muttered the boy and seemed to see the man for the first time, as if woken from a dream.

Then they stared at eachother for a moment, feeling out one another.

Finally, the young man said, “You collecting cans?”

Po bowed his head a bit and smiled a smile of humility. The boy held his forefinger up to him and muttered, “Hold on,” then flicked his burning butt into the gutter. The cats jumped off his lap as he stood up and went back through the gate into the complex.

Po heard a door slam and a couple minutes passed. He wasn’t sure if the boy was going to come back or not, and certainly no one had ever retrieved the bottles from their homes for him; he usually stuck to the common fare of rooting through their trash. But nonetheless, Po was curious.

He heard the door slam again and heard a clinking sound (much like his cart) coming back down the stairs towards him.

The young man opened the gate with his foot and came out carrying 4 enormous black garbage bags full of beer bottles, beer cans, plastic pints of black velvet, wine bottles, glass bottles of vodka, gin, and even a couple little blue bottles of grappa. His muscles bulged with the weight.

Po began to smile.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said quickly, bowing.

The young man set down the wares and breathed a bit heavy, let out a deep and grinding cough that echoed in the rafters. After he was done wiping the mucus off his hand onto his jeans, he looked at Po and said, “You need more?”

“More…? Yes, thank you, thank you…”

The young man ran back up the stairs again and came back holding a big cardboard box lined with six-packs of empty beer and 5 wine bottles or so.

Po began loading all these treasures immediately, still thanking the boy. And when the boy went back inside without a word, Po thought that was the last of the bottles.

But to his surprise he once again heard the familiar sound of glass on glass clanking down the stairs of the apartment building. Po paused for a moment, perplexed at the sight of the young man precariously balancing 5 empty handles of Puerto Rican rum in his arms.

Po was perplexed.

Once all the recyclables were safely tucked into the cart the young man lit up a cigarette and looked once again to the west and the tall buildings which were his neighbors. He was lost in them once more.

“Have party, sir?”

“Huh….?….Oh, no…I hate parties,” muttered the young man through drags.

It seemed as if he didn’t understand the question.

“You drink lot?”

The young man answered slowly, “Just at night.”

It seemed that Po found that a perfectly reasonable answer, for he took up his hat, bowed his head, said thank you once more, and started the cart rolling east again.

The young man gave him a weak salute and headed back inside.  The black cat stayed at the young man’s heels while the tabby went off after Po down the cold street towards 32nd, each marking the mens separate paths.

The young man climbed up the stairs and went into his apartment, leaving the black cat at his door.

The cart kept making its odd music.

The young man found a beer in his fridge and and chugged it while looking out his window west into the pink and darkened sky, the last remnants of the moon hanging delicate on the horizon, like that of the cool taste of  liquor on his bittered tongue. He finished it quickly. He threw it on the ground. He paused for a moment and then slowly stripped his clothes off, baring himself to the morning.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. Then he went to the kitchen, fished another beer out of the fridge, opened it and brought it to the bathroom with him. He set it on the top of the toilet next to the shower.

He sat down and shat violently, holding himself while he was doing it to make sure and get out all the poison. The sound was halfway terrifying. The stench was worse.

When he was done he flushed and opened the curtain to the waiting water, ready and hot, and he let his body relax in the flooding shower of numbness.

His head was a little better now.

It was then he began to masterbate, with no real intention, if only to feel something other than his nagging ache.

He sifted through the archive of sexual images in his head, both experienced and imagined, and clutched onto the first memory that could call him erect. It happened to be of an old friend who had made a sweet and dirty omission into his ear when he was but 17. Some secret that only she and he would ever share.

And this got him going.

He climaxed into a perfect numb moment where all the world was lifted from his young and manic mind, and he thought of simply nothing, and he was happy.

All the alcohol rushed to his brain then, ridding him of the sickness for the moment. Then there was a smile on his face, and he sat down in the shower on his bottom. He reached out of the curtain for the beer, and found it. He began to drink, savoring it, watching some of the water pour from his face into the open bottle. He didn’t mind.

He knew this one  moment was maybe all he would have for the day. He knew soon his seratonin would give out if he didn’t continue with the drink.

The responsibilities of the drunk are endless, he thought to himself.

The young man’s name was Vincent.

Out beyond his shower window to the east, just one block or so, Po was headfirst in another can, searching for treasures. The tabby eyed him nonchalantly, licking her paws and loafing on the top of his garbage pile. Po muttered to himself about old things, and sometimes it seemed he was talking to another and sometimes just to himself.

The tabby jumped up suddenly. It seemed that the black cat, not having anything to do, had wandered back down the street towards the sideshow of aluminum and glass. The two toms found one another and began to jump and skip and scratch playfully.

The day began to get warm. Po thought it was to be good day. Maybe the sun would melt the chill from his marrow. Maybe.

It was 6:47 A.M.

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experiment in absurdity

is it you there? well who did you think it was? well I wasn’t sure. oh. while you were still betting on it I had a guess. oh well then it is you. yes. well then why are you asking? why? yeah, I guess so. what do you mean? well I think that was the answer. oh. well  I think it went well. oh, well at least that’s what she said. good I think we can go on. good I think we can go on now.good. well, what are you waiting for? waiting for the thing to come. what thing? you know that one I was talking about, with the wheels and stuff? yeah, the wheels that go round? yeah and the the turnstile spins and then you go on with another passenger and the passenger rides the go round til you stop. til you stop? yeah. well? when do you stop? well I suppose thats when the circle ended. oh and the circle ends the turnstile. wow! I didn’t see that one coming! what the spinning? no the passenger. good becuz its better than waiting for it, at least that’s what I heard. didn’t know you could hear it. well why wouldn’t I? well you said it was your first time hearing it. no, that was the second. now youre just cheating. was anybody keeping score? I dont think so. that’s good cuz I think im losing. and im on my third! you always do that. win? no, keep score. well I thought you were cheating. that’s cuz you didn’t hear the first. are you sure, becuz I think it sounded something like the spinning. oh, well that just means youre losing. not in my book. which book? the one I wrote. you never wrote a thing. are you sure?, I thought you left your pen somewhere. and then you tried the writing, but im telling you it just wont work. over here I found it. if youre gonna do it anyway, theyres no point in me stopping you. might as well give it a try. bring the book back! not if youre gonna yell at me. but that’s my point you were writing. and the tunnel the ate flowers out your hand, I get it! thought you would. at least for now. if only for the better. if only to rehearse. theres no need for rehearsal, were artists. but the book says…never mind the book. I remember specifically there being a rehearsal even if we’re artists. well we’ll just make it up. that’s what artisist do. but who says we’re artists? we do. that makes sense. of course it does! now follow the jumping apple! but where does it go? you’ll see if you follow it. but im not gonna follow it if I don’t know where it goes. but that’s the point of the following. I don’t think I trust you. I don’t think you should be listening to apples. but it was your idea! no it wasn’t. well, maybe in the first. im on the second. but who’s keeping score? who? yeah, who. I thought he died. he did, car accident with why. What? Whennn?! Thought I already told you. You did, but you didn’t say when. youre right. that part is important.

 

running aheads towards if not so magnificiently in the rabbit hole its heading towards is the cant even seem to explain if it’s the rabbit hole magnificiently and it was running counterclockwise eating up the sun if it was willing and while the rabbits heard it it was playing with with two chords if only for mischief and dead on me is the fire singing drum beats to the magnificiently two chords running rap around a handkerchief and if the handkerchief holds two swords then I guess its for the burning and the bursting bubble ate out counterclockwise while the ladies danced the tango and the jukebox just played on and then it tied up all the ladies with a rhythm rabbit run and if it was only for them having babies then I guess ill be unplugged if the fires in the jukebox and then ill sit and I’ll drink punch with the fires in the half man dance run rampant ramble and the hello sits and waits to behold but the horse is in the stable and if the barn it gets unplugged then I guess itll be a good angle to take pictures of the mood and then we’ll sit and we’ll eat food but not If the fires in the stable. ten half askance unfurling chance situation for the halo basking in the fire of a woebegotten able have you kids to not to see the lot of thieves did lock themselves from knocks on silver doors and hope side shore and all around they give you more but only if im able. and knock three times on little rhymes and chorus rehears the glitter guise and out the place and through three doors, was the alone if able and I f the open side was grinning wide then I guesss that im able to hang it up and bruises cut but ill be fine if I lay low.

girl meets boy

okay look do you see that stare I think I did what can I do about it look back oh god shes kind of pretty oh now she caught me looking oh don’t back down now but what do I say what can be said and hope for the best well that was easier than I thought I think its all the better she seems to be interested look up at her eyes and you know shes staring too seems like shes listening too and what is that she wants to know that I don’t think I should tell her should I lie oh well why not lie I think she caught me damn this one is good from the start she had a confident smile and she gives sharp looks her eyes are crystal don’t look too long look down like youre indifferent maybe I am don’t be this one is gorgeous my palms are getting sweaty I don’t think she likes me but she did ask about that again hmmm…that laugh is like fucking butter oh she did it again should I tell her about my dog girls always like dogs but how much can you say about a dog dear god shes moving closer I notice her lips again she bites it like she knows what shes doing or maybe she doesn’t and hopefully that’s better kinda like my heart is racing goddam I need a cigarette wonder if she smokes okay that makes it easier I can offer her one oh she smokes lites well that might be a problem if this relationship goes anywhere I hope she got the joke offer her a match its classier that way good she acknowledges the match little things like that always get you through a lull in conversation we can tilt back and smoke now and watch her exhale she does it in that relaxed way ive always liked that and now her lipstick sticks to it her bodys slimmer than I thought and frail looking I like the way shes kind of pale don’t know why is that odd I don’t know so I ask her she laughs and says shes glad I find that cute I don’t know was that too much am I being weird my head gets dizzy with the smoke and her laugh her profile etched in the streetlight looks luxurious again I think shes caught on to my ruse I am absorbed and she knows and decides not to pull me from it coaxes me in that’s so damn sweet I haven’t been able to make conversation like this in awhile she tells me bout the band she saw last night and I think ive heard of them or maybe just say I do to look cooler I don’t care at this point we snuff the smokes and go back inside I offer her some coffee she says she likes it black and I think I respect that so we both take it black and make fun of those with creamer and now she sits down even closer and starts playing with my hand maybe touch maybe feel maybe wow now the blood goes to my head coffee euphoria both our hands are clammy and slide against one another I notice her mouth open slightly with a coy smile goddam what does that mean and what does she pick up from my palm what voodoo is she picking up from me but peruses my thoughts so slyly don’t act like you don’t know what im talking about I say and she hides her eyes behind her hair you remind me of someone I remind ou of someone or I know weve met before I think I had a dream about you once lets wax our sarcastically pretentious humor while the moon in our hot fingers wane.

 

the blessed; an unfinished play

 

 

le béni

J.M. Rulon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Characters:

 

Narrator (Luke)

 

Rosemary Black

 

Shadow Stohn

 

Benny Blessed

 

Harley Darling

 

Badger Opal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.”

          -Carlos Castaneda

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prologue: Maquillage

 

 

 

(a girls room, in it a vanity mirror and scattered clothes, stack of pillows in front of mirror. girl at mirror, making herself up, boy approaches and stands behind her hesitantly. He muses over her, curious. She looks placated persistently.)

 

Rosemary: what is she doing?

 

Shadow: What are you doing?

 

Rosemary: Getting ready.

 

Shadow: oh…

 

Rosemary: (muttering) for…

 

Shadow: For what?! (excitedly)

 

Rosemary: (smiles lightly) For the party. (then goes back to placation and applying)

 

Shadow: Well, when is it?

 

Rosemary: Whenever,…you know.

 

Shadow: I don’t.

 

Rosemary: Well, there isn’t one specifically, but if one does come along, then I should….

 

Shadow: You should be ready.

 

Rosemary: Right.

 

Shadow: Well it is Friday.

 

Rosemary: Exactly.

 

(silence for a moment)

 

Rosemary: (muttering) Should I or shouldn’t

 

Shadow: So you think you’ll definitely go then?

 

Rosemary: To whatever it is that’s to happen?

 

Shadow: yes?

 

Rosemary: Well, that depends.

 

Shadow: On the where, whens, and whys.

 

Rosemary: Obviously.

 

Shadow: Well, what if I was to ask you why anyhow?

 

Rosemary: How do you mean?

 

Shadow: I mean, specifically. Like…why go there anyhow?

 

Rosemary: I thought I told you that depends on the where.

 

Shadow: When did you say that?

 

Rosemary: Just a moment ago.

 

Shadow: Oh yes, but you’re still not getting the point.

 

Rosemary: Which is?

 

Shadow: Why bother?!

 

Rosemary: With what?

 

Shadow: With this!

 

Rosemary: The makeup?

 

Shadow: of course!

 

Rosemary: Well…how do I look? (she waits expectedly)

 

Shadow: Beautiful. Point made.

 

Rosemary: (teasingly) Mine or yours?

 

Shadow: I’m not even sure anymore.

 

Rosemary: I’m pretty sure it was mine.

 

Shadow: You distracted me with the mirror.

 

(girl goes on making herself up)

Rosemary: (muttering) sore loser

 

Shadow: I know what you think I’m going to say, so just don’t think it. Im not a sore loser.

 

Rosemary: Don’t you tell me what to think. Take that back!

 

Shadow: Don’t you tell me what to say.

 

Rosemary: Point made.

 

Shadow: Clearly. (curt) but was it mine or yours?

 

Rosemary: But I’m not keeping score.

 

Shadow: So this is a game?

 

Rosemary: Well, what else could it be?

 

Shadow: Mayhap a conversation.

 

Rosemary: And I can see obviously you haven’t held many.

 

Shadow: Why do you say that?

 

Rosemary: Because all of them are a game boy.

 

Shadow: To what ends?

 

Rosemary: sometimes for sex, sometimes pride. For sympathy or punishment. For the fooler and the fooled.

 

Shadow: And which one of these am I?

 

Rosemary: Nevermind, come closer. (she gestures him towards her)

(he forgets completely and comes in to have a look. Her eyes never stray from herself. She points at her left eye)

 

Rosemary: How do you think they look? I’ve been working on them all night.

 

Shadow: Quite marvelous. I like the color, and the fullness.

 

Rosemary: And don’t let your eyes wander silly.

 

Shadow: Why I’ve caught myself looking in the mirror again. Its horrible.

 

Rosemary: But it can be so much fun.

 

Shadow: I guess you’re right…but what do you really need them for?

 

Rosemary: Well, this for instance.

 

Shadow: Which is?

 

Rosemary: So many things.

 

Shadow: I thought it was putting on makeup.

 

Rosemary: it is, but also,… well…consider the lips. (she pulls out her red lipstick and begins to put it on)

What do they do?

 

Shadow: They kiss.

 

Rosemary: (she giggles) They lie.

 

Shadow: They beg.

 

Rosemary: They boast.

 

Shadow: They compliment.

 

Rosemary: They curse. (she finishes with the lipstick and smacks her lips.)

 

Shadow: And now they are concealed.

 

Rosemary: And now you see my point.

 

Shadow: I’m beginning to.

 

(now he stays entranced watching her slowly make touchups. She interrupts him.)

 

Rosemary: so what did you come over here for anyhow?

 

Shadow: I think to look at you.

 

Rosemary: Nonsense.

 

Shadow: Mostly.

 

Rosemary: No, I meant the reason.

 

Shadow: Well, that probably is too.

 

Rosemary: Just tell me!

(boy stops looking in mirror, straightens up and begins to pace around while girl continues to do touchups)

 

Shadow: Well, the party was the reason.

 

Rosemary: You mean the hypothetical one that im getting on makeup for that could happen whenever if we knew the when and where?

 

Shadow: What if I said it wasn’t so hypothetical anymore?

 

Rosemary: You mean-?(she finally looks up from what she is doing and looks at him)

 

Shadow:  I might be able to tell you the when and where.

 

Rosemary: You dolt! And this whole time you were just playing games with me!

 

Shadow: Hey, that part was your idea.

 

Rosemary: Point made.

 

Shadow: I think that’s three.

 

Rosemary: Don’t keep score.

 

Shadow: I wouldn’t think of it.

 

Rosemary: ….so…? Are you gonna tell me?

 

Shadow: The location? Of course. But first you must tell my why.

 

Rosemary: I already did.

 

Shadow: You did about the makeup and the mirror…but not about why you want to go to the party in the first place?

 

Rosemary: For fun. There might be someone there I wish to see.

 

Shadow: Like me?

 

Rosemary: well, I’ve already seen you. You were just in my mirror.

 

Shadow: You know what I mean…

 

Rosemary: But I….oh…(look of realization dawning on her face) …is this your roundabout way of asking me to a party?

 

Shadow: I thought you’d never ask.

 

Rosemary: But I did nonetheless. .. (getting kind of awkward)

 

Shadow: As did I. And so…here we are.

 

Rosemary: You’re telling me.

 

Shadow:  oh no.

 

Rosemary: What?

 

Shadow: That means you’re gonna say no.

 

Rosemary: Not necessarily.

 

Shadow: Gaaah! That means you’re definitely gonna say no now!

 

Rosemary: That’s preposterous!

 

Shadow: because if you had wanted to go by now you wouldn’t have said not necessarily you would have just said yes, so that means no and no is final and now I’m about to be embarrassed when you say no and damn its already embarrassing just thinking about how bad its gonna be…and…and…

 

(he sits and puts his head down. She looks stunned and speechless. Then she goes over to him and kneels down next to him.)

 

Rosemary: What if I said yes?

 

Shadow: Well, that would be great! (head up now and smiling)

 

Rosemary: I mean this is a hypothetical. (jokingly)

 

Shadow: Oh no! (he puts his head down again)

 

Rosemary: Get up! (grabbing him)

 

Shadow: Why?! (being stubborn)

 

Rosemary: (loudly and sternly) Cuz we’re going to a goddam party you dimwit!

 

Shadow: You said yes? (perking up and getting on his legs)

 

Rosemary: in so many words….Now, go make yourself up.

 

( boy runs offstage with glee to change. Girl goes back to the mirror and sits down, and this time just stares. Looks at herself from different angles. This goes on for a minute or so)

 

Rosemary: Darling.

 

(from somewhere offstage boy yells): Darling!

 

Rosemary: Yes?

 

Shadow: Were you talking to yourself? What were you doing?

 

Rosemary: Nothing.

 

(She stands up and walks offstage.)

 

(Narrator walks onstage holding a journal or notebook. He stands center stage and holds it up to read. Clears his throat.)

 

 

Narrator:

 

An Excerpt from the diary of Benny Blessed;

And is this what you wanted? Your young fool and naïve: Misanthropic bliss? Alone and inebriated is all you are. Hanging on the trust of anyone come close. And darling monkey

doesn’t it hurt to have someone observe your gaze isn’t it knives to feel

isn’t it lucky and unreal doesn’t it choke? What have you got darling?

What have you got? Watching your mind die slowly into it Is all you are doing. The times are scared the mind is scared the heart is weak. and again and again and again, There is nothing here for you but tendrils of smoke and stab Cough and scab. Sigh and torment. Violent misgiving. Listen closely because I am putting trust in you listen closely because it is only a whisper listen closely cuz it means the world and you can only hear it once. Man is death and we are but devils. And we are lust unnatural, And we are lost obscene.  so mindless the actor  so fooled is the lover so godly and black the business, So sacred the art of desolation. And her lips destroy and her eyes engulf and her breath it chokes. And mine eyes are starving, As usual amiss and affections fleeting, as she is so affluent to recognize Over and over.

I’ll try to forget my mind once more for you, For he’s a manic lover, with a blade to his neck , And id like to give him his death by the water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Act 1: Dormir en feu

 

 

 

Act 1, Scene 1

 

(Benny sits in his room at his desk with a smoke and a glass, which he sips periodically. There are papers scattered about the room and glass bottles, ashtrays. He is shirtless and unshaven. On his desk is a gun.)

 

Benny:

 

There is a fire tonight in my dreams and I can see it even still upon waking. The night is caught ashen in orange and grey rain. I wonder if Im still dreaming as I look across the valley to the plumes rising ravenous to the sky all those miles away, until I realize that no, the forest is really on fire. and I wonder about the animals that burn away in the forest when the high wind dry grass and flame meet in the long hours before dawn. I awoke as I was crying in the night, screaming something far off and strangled, something unrecognizable but familiar. Like a haunting lyric, the clip of a melody echoing through the caverns of mind. And my skin burned and I rolled over to look at the clock but it just blinked back some falsehood and all I could remember was something of the fire sirens. And I feel the midnight turn manic. Clocks click to none and  the silence stings the black while you sigh heavy and take that last hit  and I don’t want to think about it, never want to think about it. Pull myself away from it. Have another smoke, take back the burn with the ice. Perfect dark in nite spent thinking and the tedium pressing in on you from the walls with their white pasty plaster textured skin that’s crawling and moving into shapes… but no. there is still nothing, I decide.  And so it itches under my skin and so it tears me bloody and so it is the cloud like the one on the horizon. Never to remember boy, please don’t let me see it.

And I go out underneath the harvest moon sky and listen for the engines and helicopters that come to fix the land and inhale the bitter nicotine to stain and stab my tongue, and I am still shaking and sweating and choked but I cant remember now. Never to remember, boy, please don’t let me see it.

Did I start the world on fire?

Caffeine starting in the pot and it will be dirty friend to hold my gut tonight. Let the records play, no one else will hear, and ive fallen in love with women who possess a deep throaty jazz voice that sounds like clove and blue smoke. And I can almost taste the red lips that would pull deep on my diseased lips, a broken man in her breath. So I inhale exhale sing along and dance to myself here in the early hours like every other night sleepless, but this is the only hell and home I find.

 And darling its sweet.

Like the sugar in the coffee bites my teeth, like the crook in my spine that chills me, like the fall breeze the prison the love the solitude. Maybe rum in the coffee. Maybe scream.

And so im caught with shakes again upon waking completely with the thin euphoria pulling at my mind I wonder what it was I was speaking of in my sleep. The sweat begins to chill on my naked body with the breeze and my lips are dry. A flash of images parades my mind in the aftermath of the violent rising.  And I don’t think. Too many things to come to, to look upon and the light is too brilliant and id rather hold back. This the fear. And this is the cure. The biting intoxication and a song. No one to notice. I’m convinced its beautiful.

 There is a wall of glass on the far side of the house where the valley begins and it can see for miles. It stretches too high for you to reach the far cobwebs and so the spiders have built a small world in the crevice of the ceiling untouched, and deservedly so. Their small spawn crawl over one another in the crystal caverns of their threadlike womb, and I can see them like dots sometimes, millions of silent eyes. All watching the scoundrel, as he rots to himself below.

But I can scream to the glass and no one will hear. The lovely and the ironic. I hope my little friends will crawl down and join me. I am an insect too.

 

The television drawls on, eternal infomercial and laugh tracks. I read somewhere that most shows don’t use new laugh tracks, so chances are I am  listening to the sound of the dead laughing. That seems to make me smile. I am never watching though. Sometimes I scribble, sometimes I write, sometimes the static of the screen fills my head and I let it take me away in drifts of snow. more hot coffee and nicotine, more hot water for the brain and what is it that wants me, eats me up from the inside now; my mind has become eternally restless, the meter set to discontent. Nails to bite, teeth to grind and jagged edges in the rot of my mind.

The world is changing to cold with the season.

And soon I will fall.

 

Take me. Take me.

 

I am Benny Blessed. There has been a razorblade sitting on my nightstand for six months. No one has noticed. The lovely and the ironic. All the things that make a poor soul laugh. But no, I am not empty, I am no poor soul, this I cannot say.

 

 

I am one of the Blessed.

And our cities are paved in gold.

Our swine baked in apple.

Our palaces of god.

Our whores bath in roses,

And our eyes covered in light.

 

I am Benny Blessed and my face it is illusion.

{Desperate is the man that falls into the darkness}

I am Benny Blessed and I never sleep

{and I am no soldier}

I am Benny Blessed and I think my stomach’s bleeding

{but I am still}

I am Benny blessed but I think I’ll still have caffeine

{a man}

I am Benny blessed and I’ve forgotten what the feeling is

{of war}

Of touch come from a woman’s hand

{like soldier in the darkness desperate is the man that feeds it to the fire}

And the rush of her lips

{but shadows take to memories like lightning to the storm}

Against yours

 

I scratch prayers upon the walls for I have forgotten what else to do. I think I talk to the spirits when I sleep, and I think they whisper their secrets to me like they are lovers and I sleep next to their gaze, they stroke my cheek with cold sighs

 

But no one would believe so I never say a thing. It’s better this way I think.

 

The TV screams on, now the screen flashes war and political orgy, and more product placement in between the shiny teeth  of a man spinning propaganda from a cue card behind the camera. This is my favorite channel. This one is on round the clock. The words here will never fail to prevail to the junkie. To the American darlings.

 

And here watching, our laughs are like bitter.

Our romance is suicidal.

It seems the King is dead.

Long live the King.

 

So what is it now to drink but to drown and always forget and this is the weak way out and this is so easy. No one notices. Everyone needs their numb. It is business as usual and the drinks fall into theirs mouth so easy, like they do mine. but do they sit here longing and finding nothing to grasp,  in the thin of the new morning? How many sipped themselves bitter and forgetting, knowing themselves all the while fooled?

 You can’t forget yourself easy.

 I never can.

It’s why I am up.

It’s in the night terrors.

It lives in the cupboard next to the pills and the cough syrup and the makeup so pale, where the mirror’s all cracked, and you can see yourself shattered.

What monsters here hold me?

Long live the king.

I am angry at the crack so I break the rest of the mirror with the soap dish and begin to laugh hysterically.

Notice that my blood would look beautiful on the bleached white tiles under fluorescents, so I pick up a piece and prick my finger to see.

It glistens ungodly.

Red so bright it stings the eye, and I begin to tear up.

And I write little red symbols on the ground with my fingers. More prayers.

 

On the wall in my room there is the portrait of a boy screaming trapped in a glass box next to a jester doll.

The boys face is filled with fear and the jesters with void and painted grin.

I think I’ll name him something melancholy so as not to disturb the spirits. I think they would want it that way.

But never mind. On to other matters. My head is buzzing now and the world is beginning to blur. I stumble over to the record player and I change the song, look out towards the horizon. The fire is getting bigger the glow in the night more pronounced, and still now the sound of copters and sirens echoing far in the distance. Their shrill song  joined by all the hounds and wolves that the hills around us housed. Something here too, to make me smile.

I always bark with them.

And once more they know me, as we are eternal madmen, and these black forests our land.

Sing sirs, sing.

 

But still…

 

It felt empty.

The night is burning the night is burning my mind is burning with memories I cannot undo.

I put the barrel in my mouth and cock the beautiful black weapon.

And I pull the trigger.

 

(Benny exits. Narrator takes the stage holding a notebook. He stands center stage and reads from it.)

 

Narrator:

 

An excerpt from the diary of Benny Blessed; And they all sing of an obsession, The coming plague, The haunt of modern man and his musings.

The detachment of the spirit from the form. He is, Drugged and poorly tamed beast, Separated from instinct, And they sing his isolation.

Latenight lately on the radio, 24 hours of static. And so I listen.

And wonder , What the caged man must be thinking, And when he will break.

 

 

 

Act 1, scene 2

 

Narrator: (ent. center stage carrying a journal)

 

An excerpt from the obituary of Harley the darling…

Her lips matched the roses. Her heart was curious. And hair dark and fine.

She had silver cheeks. And a ghastly laugh. Cute and maniacal. Sometimes she said things so awkward. And that was okay. She stayed up all night and watched stars. Sometimes they watched back…and she loved cats.

 

(Narrator exits and Harley and Shadow enter, go to two set of phones, pick them up)

 

Harley:

 

So I fell asleep finally.

don’t know how.

I was kind of restless as usual, and was just thinking about this poem I read earlier and then there I was. It was a small white room with no windows. It seemed like I was the only one there. But  then I looked at my hands and they were all bleeding, and then when I looked up there was a boy there too. He had appeared a couple feet in front of me. He was naked and in the corner clutching his knees and I couldn’t see his face. I tried to get close a few times but it seemed like his face kept disappearing beneath his hair. And then all of a sudden it was like I could feel the heat coming off of his chest.  I could Almost hear the throbbing of his heart, and I could tell he was scared. Even though it was a dream I could tell he was scared, that’s what creeps me out the most. He started to say something like “go away,” and then all of a sudden…he looked up. And he disappeared. And it was night.

And I was falling through night. Onto…

 

Badger: Onto what?!

 

Harley: I cant recall…then I woke up.

 

Badger: Oh, well, that’s no fun.

 

Harley: None at all…

 

Badger: So what do you think it means?

 

Harley: I don’t know, could mean a lot of things.

 

Badger: Maybe you’re the boy.

 

Harley: But I’m a girl.

 

Badger: I know that…I meant like in a metaphorical way.

 

Harley: Is that the scientific term? In a metaphorical way?

 

Badger: For a matter of fact, it is.

 

Harley: Well…I don’t know, it kinda felt like someone else.

 

Badger: So…..

 

Harley: So….?

 

Badger: How was your day Harley, darling?

 

Harley: Well, I wrote up my obituary.

 

Badger: Hmmmm…are you dying?

 

Harley: No, I just want to be prepared. I think a lot of people get stuck with real stuffy obituaries. And they never have any say. I mean, if they had known they were gonna die you’d think they’d request their headline to read something like John Doe, age 48 died today of a heart attack. His last words were… ‘Yo, timmy I still owe you 10 bucks. You ain’t never getting that shit now. Ha Ha, nigga! See you in hell!’

 

Badger: What’s your point?

 

Harley: My point is…I’m gonna be prepared. I have it written down. Now no one will be ever allowed to write some dumb boring generic obituary about me.

 

Badger: I guess that’s a good idea.

 

Harley: Damn straight it is.

 

Badger: So are you gonna read it to me?

 

Harley: Of course not!

 

Badger: Why not?

 

Harley: Because it’s personal.

 

Badger: Everyone else is gonna see it eventually.

 

Harley: But that’s after I’m dead.

 

Badger: So you’re saying that you’re afraid of being judged?

 

Harley: No.

 

Badger: So then what are you saying?

 

Harley: I don’t know.

 

Badger: You’re crazy.

 

Harley: That’s alright. How was your day?

 

Badger: Mostly nothingness. Some old movies….have you been working on any dolls lately?

 

Harley: Just the one.

 

Badger: Is it a boy?

 

Harley: That it is.

 

Badger: And what is this handsome young gentleman’s name?

 

Harley: His name is Benny.

 

Badger: Benny? Where’d you get that?

 

Harley: I don’t know.

 

Badger: You sure do say that a lot.

 

Harley: What’s that?

 

Badger: I don’t know.

 

Harley: You don’t know what?

 

Badger: No, I do know. What you say a lot.

 

Harley: Which is?

 

Badger: I don’t know.

 

Harley: Well, then why are you even talking about it?

 

Badger: Nevermind.

 

Harley: Well, goodness…you know I was thinking about something the other day. Like the idea that the word nothing is meant to imply absence when really it never can.

 

Badger: How‘s that?

 

Harley: The word nothing is meant to define the absence of something, correct?

 

Badger: I suppose.

 

Harley: Nothing itself is a word and therefore exists and therefore….cannot in itself be nothing.

Badger: Obviously. But are you proposing that the physical and existential traits of a word should parallel the definition?

 

Harley: Not necessarily, I just think that the notion of nothing is just kind of silly.

 

Badger: Well, then what about everything?

 

Harley: Exactly. What about it? Everything about it.

 

Badger: I get the idea.

 

Harley: And that is?

 

Badger: That both extremes are poor definitions, untrue. There is no such thing as everything. There is no such thing as nothing.

 

Harley: You’ve thought about this too?

 

Badger: More times than one.

         

Harley: oh, and words are silly sometimes.

 

Badger: As is everything.

 

Harley: I like to look at it that way sometimes.

 

Badger: As silly?

 

Harley: Silly and empty.

 

Badger: Empty?

 

Harley: So as not to disappoint. Its devoid of meaning, but funny in that sense.

 

Badger: What is?

 

Harley: Everything.

Badger: Oh…I got you now.

 

Harley: And if you pass it all of as nothing, then you’ll probably jus think that everything is funny, and therefore worth it.

 

Badger: Worth what?

 

Harley: Worth it all.

 

Badger: But I thought it was meaningless.

 

Harley: But not necessarily worthless.

 

Badger: Well that makes sense.

 

Harley: Well, it should.

 

Badger: How is that?

 

Harley: Well, it makes sense because nothing does, and therefore you can pass it off as nothing, and everything’s better.

 

Badger: Well, I hope it would be.

 

Harley: Otherwise, what’s the point?

 

Badger: I suppose that’s true. Well, what does the doll look like anyhow?

 

Harley: Who?

 

Badger: Benny!

 

Harley: Oh yeah, Benny. Um…he’s tall, blond hair, stubbly, blue eyes, dark rings…I like the dark rings under eyes, um….long fingers, a chain bracelet…black clothes….I like him a lot.

 

Badger: I love your little dolls. They’re like voodoo.

 

Harley: I don’t believe in voodoo. And they’re never of people I know.

 

Badger: So Benny doesn’t exist?

 

Harley: Who knows, maybe he does.

 

Badger: Then it is voodoo.

 

Harley: Maybe…

         

 

Act 1, Scene 3

 

( Narrator enters center stage while Harley is sitting in backleft, fiddling with her rag doll)

 

Narrator:

 

Harley the darling held him in her arms. He smelled like marker and yarn. Two of her favorite smells. And his eyes were glassy blue, staring back up at her. She had stitched him a smile. She had made him a coat. And it was coal-black, like she knew she would have wanted it. She made him some boots, out of some old leather she had found in the basement. They had fit perfectly. Onto his cheeks she had sewn red spots of dimple. And so he stared his stitched smile.         And so she smiled back. And oh, to have him. To clutch his simple cloth. She could fill in his spaces like he was blank canvass, create his words for him, make his looks and personality. She liked that. She liked the way he fit into the crook of her arm, and had his coffee black. He never slept, only stayed up watching after her. He rarely said much, but did so with great deliberation. She suspected it had something to do with his insecurity over being wrong. Benny was so stubborn like that sometimes. She liked the way his hair was in his eyes and he’d never brush it back. And the way he always walked around at night outside alone and lost for hours. She never knew what he was doing, But it made her so mystified. And maybe he was doing that on purpose. Or maybe he was just like that. She loved the way he always said grace at meals, and never believed in God. She loved the way he had no faith. She loved the way he never ate in the day. She loved the way he never slept at night.

She Loved that he only used candles.  Harley loved Benny’s nose, knack for clarinet, borderline narcissism, obsessive compulsive tendencies, chain-smoked lungs, and ultimate tenderness. She loved the way he kind of lisped. She loved the things he might whisper into her ear at night. Sometimes he did that kind of secretly so she wouldn’t notice. But sometimes she did anyway. He would wait until he thought she was sleeping and then crawl over to her pillow and rub his cloth cheek up to hers and say things that no one should ever know but her. And oh, to have him.

He would never leave her. She stroked his stitches, knowing. He would never leave her.

 

(Narrator exits and Harley puts down the rag doll and begins walking slowly up the stage)

 

 

 

Harley:

 

Why am I here? What am I doing? Am I out of my mind? Alright, stepping onto the threshold, gonna open the door. Oh, dammit is he in here? Why am I coming to his work? I don’t wanna see him! Shit, why didn’t I just go uptown a few blocks? I guess I could just get coffee. Can he see me you think? What the hell is he gonna think when he sees me? I’m just asking for trouble. Okay, just go up to the thing, and order, maybe he wont notice if he’s working drive thru. What do I want? What do I want? Regular coffee?

What Kind? What kind? Should I know that? Um…the one with the most caffeine? Good call, I think she liked that, she smiled. Oh wait…oh, no.

 I think he saw me. Ah shit, ah shit, ah shit. Okay just smile and wave politely. Oh shit he’s coming over here. Okay….okay…small-talk small-talk…Wait, what? He wants to take his break to come talk to me?!

 I don’t fucking get it. Okay, just grab your god dam puerto Rican roast or whatever it is. Let’s go sit down. Now He’s saying he would just like to apologize? He thinks the whole thing could have gone smoother? No shit.

Just smile at him and make nice. Say that you think so too. Fuckin schmuck.

 He says he thinks we could have been great friends. Really? Really? Gonna go with that one, chief? What a dick. We could have been great friends.

Should just tell him its been months and I’m over it. Keep your calm.

Keep you demeanor. Your wicked smile. Your great posture.  Keep your ruby lips mellow, Harley. You can do this better. Light a cigarette now, don’t offer him one. Exhale so that it feels good to finally say it. So how is the whore? Inhale. Exhale. He looks taken aback. Oh dear god, he’s practically steaming at the fucking ears. Did I do this? It’s kind of funny. And now he’s asking why I would say such a thing? Now I’m just giggling and I can’t stop for a second and I’m giggling so much it makes me fall over. I can’t help it.

Sometimes I get that way. Stop laughing, stop laughing Harley. Oh shit I can’t. Well, he’s left and  gone back into work now, look at that. Stern as ever, so serious. Well, that was fun, but let’s take this party somewhere else. Don’t think of him now though, Harley, just walk. So now the breeze is cool so that’s good and the elms and oaks are all dying so that’s even better, because I like the dying trees. And the houses around here are all old and beautiful, Victorian and gothic, so I like to look, like to walk. Because you always see people. So many crevices and alleys holding people. People working, people jogging, people fucking, people smoking, people drawing, so many people. I like the way small children draw in chalk symbols and in some secret code that I cannot discern but I think its important, and I think it’ll save the world. The problem is no one ever really asks them. Maybe I should do that today. Maybe I should ask them. Yeah, I think I will. That man always sits out on the stoop and always forgets he sees me, I think. Because In his eyes there are no recognition when I pass but I pass him daily. It’s alright though. He’s still my friend. I wonder if anyone else ever notices him. I’m sure they do. They have to…his nose is so beautiful and crooked.  That is true. Maybe he’s blind. But I don’t think so. Alright, where am I going? Does it matter? Not really. Well, I’m hitting capitol park so I think ill just walk towards the mall. What do I want at the mall, though?

Nothing really. I could just read for hours at the bookstore. Why don’t I just go to the library then? It’s just a few blocks away anyhow. But then I’d have to be quiet and that’s no fun. Then again the bookstore probably doesn’t have any Cummings. Of course they don’t, and that’s because no one in this world has such a refined sense of romantic nonsense poetry as I. I wonder if Benny loves E.E. Cummings. I bet he does, I bet he reads him like every night. Or maybe he thinks he’s past that. He’d probably say ‘that’s so college.’ And I’d reply something like ‘whatever, he’s the turning point of twentieth century writing.’ And then he’d be like… ‘I know, I totally dug him for a while.’ and then he’d just look real stoic…and…it would be awesome. Just like that like one-legged dog. Wait what the fuck is that?

Huh. Don’t see that every day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Act 1, scene 4

 

(Benny’s room again, same set, except the gun is nowhere to be seen, he is lying on the ground away from the audience. He is still. The narrator speaks from somewhere offstage in the dark.)

 

Narrator: Benny…(softly)

 

Benny: hm…..

 

Narrator: Benny…

 

Benny: (sits up and rubs his eyes) …Yes?

 

Narrator: I think its her again.

 

Benny: Who?

 

Narrator: The girl.

 

Benny: The one?

 

Narrator: The one you’ve been writing of.

 

Benny: How could you know? (he gets up and begins pacing. The voice of the narrator remains offstage)

 

Narrator: it’s pretty easy to tell. I mean, you speak of her so much.

 

Benny: I guess I do.

 

Narrator: Even in your sleep.

 

Benny: Was I -? (he looks back towards the ground)

 

Narrator: Yes:

Benny: Again?

 

Narrator: it would seem so.

 

Benny: Hmmmm….Nevermind. (he lites a cigarette and inhales deeply)

…Fuck….(exhales)….you don’t think its kinda weird though?

 

Narrator: Sleeptalking is very normal as far as I know.

 

Benny: No, the girl. I’ve been obsessing again. Can’t get her out of here. You know? And I swear she’s real she has to be but….I don’t wanna even talk about it people, would think im nuts. But I could swear I keep seeing her. Dreams and life, you know? Like I can’t tell the difference anymore. It’s like I’m ….

 

Narrator: Cracking up?

 

Benny: You said it not me.

 

Narrator: I think you’re being overdramatic.

 

Benny: Why does everyone keep on saying that? …and, and, who are you to judge? You’re a fucking voice in my head.

 

Narrator: Sorry…

 

Benny: Well, you should…actually… you shouldn’t. I’m the one who has fallen in love with a character he wrote.

 

Narrator: It is characteristically delusional behavior…

 

Benny: Thanks….

 

Narrator: But…nonetheless, you aren’t cracking up. There’s lots of writers that fall in love with their own characters. Granted most of them were usually influenced by real women but, I’m sure there was a couple of them that weren’t…I guess…

 

 

Benny: But could they smell her scent? taste her lips? hear her whisper?

Fall into madness with the mere idea of her? Did they concede to the psychosis that it takes to dedicate one’s life to the figment and a thought they once had while dreaming? To bar in the doors and board oneself in so as not to disturb the ebb and flow of thoughts that were her? Did they give up all hope for there is none without her presence? Did they walk into the forest alone and empty one hundred miles just to meet her when all would know she was never there? Did they?!

 

Narrator: Like I said….you are being overdramatic.

 

Benny: But no, (quieter now)… whats to come is to come and doing all these things won’t help a bit…for she is not real and life has its rules, and an artist cannot change that.

 

Narrator: Then you’re a failed artist.

 

Benny: Mayhap I am.

 

Narrator: You admit defeat often. Like the bourgeois artist of style….you give into your sadness like it is a bad disease come to claim you.

 

Benny: But I have no control over this!

 

Narrator: Then you admit the power of God over yourself?! You deny the divine right of the human mind?!

 

Benny: No, never!

 

Narrator: Then strap yourself up, Benny! You have nothing to be down about. You are no one’s slave, you are a creator and madman. You are a drunkard and a poet. Most people could never say that they have had the same passion for anything as you have had whilst swallowing wine and…  and fucking and singing and screaming at the rats in the wall!

 

Benny: Well…youre right. I suppose I am amazing at both drinking and fucking. And singing too! Well, what do you suppose I do now though…

 

Narrator: Drink and fuck and sing, I suppose.

Benny: But before that happens….

 

Narrator: Yes….

 

Benny: This whole God thing…I must argue it more.

 

Narrator: oh jesus…I suppose.

 

Benny: Are you proposing that human consciousness is the driving force behind creation? That we created this world just by existing enough to perceive it….rather than some end all be all entity in the pearly sky?

 

Narrator: Yeah, kind of…

 

Benny: So basically, what you’re saying is…I’m God.

 

Narrator: No.

 

Benny: Damn.

 

Narrator: but you do have the ability to create.

 

Benny: Oh. Well…then who did the rest? You know…the stuff I didn’t create.

 

Narration: (curtly) Chaos. Are we done here?

 

Benny: But there’s no order to that! And therefore, I don’t want to perceive it!

 

Narrator: (sigh) Are you done?

 

Benny: Well, what else am I to do?

 

Narrator: Drink and fuck.

 

Benny: But that all seems so pointless.

 

Narrator: here we go….

Benny: And I don’t even know where I could go to get a drink right now.

 

Narrator: Um…Benny.

 

Benny: Yes Mr. Voice?

 

Narrator: I might know a place. Hear me out….

 

Benny: I always do.

 

(Light fades out on Benny as the narrator takes the stage, and begins talking excitedly and angrily)

 

 

Narrator:

 

I am decrepit and I am lost. I am fleeting and I am love; I would never have it be otherwise. I am symbol and I am symptom.

Lost again found in wandering. Don’t ask me to be otherwise.

I am simple and I am the labyrinth. There is nothing left to ask.

Done again, solved again thought again and seen again. Nothing left here. And so it is that again. So it is that again; Salvation and dependence damnation deprecation the lover the loveless the only way out the masses once more and again say it for me so I can hear wander wander lonely with everybody. Hell, I met you again head-on. So be it. As above so below. The blessed will be.

 

(Fade out)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image

head at night

head at night

scratchings from the asylum floor; a bad memory

 I found my way through a  keyhole in a dead oak and its burning me alive I think. theyre holding my funeral hold my hand im not there I see a dull darkness my skull aches im plummeting through a

never ends never ends never stops

never ends

that big black

hole you ate up the fabric of the last time the world actually spun

and now its

 

big white halls carted down I don’t remember when they strapped me in but I can see a nurse and Im smiling like I know her but never did she looks like an angel my pupils so gone and dilated and I was screaming let me out but they wouldn’t let me and I broke from one of the straps had to tie me down and now it hurts to think of them. they put me out beneath the iridescent everfucking brites and I howled like a monkey and there was another small asian child on another gurney down the hall weeping and looking at me strait in the eye and he asked. “why would you say that you fucking pig? why would you do that to my family?” and he looked strait at me and he looked strait at me, and he looked strait at me.

stared into a cold eternity and watched the ancient dark clock spin empty and hollow marking torrential sorrow for years upon years him staring and asking staring and asking, and I couldn’t close my gaze and while the old clock sung cyclones I had to swallow the eye of the storm and why did you do this why did you and I caught the tears of another flaming heart with all hell and all fury he took me like 10,000 needles in my skull. injected ice glass into my veins it feels so cold going in and im almost coughing up blood I cant comprehend. he knows me, he cant, he knows me though. im shaking the gurney let me out let me out  and the bulbs shine down like whips and earlier I had tried to chew my wrist open and its bleeding and im tied down like a crucifixion the cop guarding me is laughing and I squeal and wiggle. help me for fucks sake the biting cyclone wont let up and im just starting to bleed from the wrists stop yelling child stop yelling child.

im being lashed again and again and now it just makes me laugh and all the lunatics yelling up and down the hall know we are gone and the world forgot us long ago and there is no hope for the mad when it is the mad that run the madhouse. and all of us waiting for ourselves dehydrated at the end of a long hallway built of blank tile where the light socket fell out and shattered against our bare shaven head that day every day and we found more chords to cut and we cut them and we saw the void and jumped into it didn’t know we’d find a cyclone at the bottom and thisll never end my dear blossom hold on to the metal railing while the iv takes you to subconscious dreaming. have to scream to tell them to hold on to.

 

I saw it in his eyes like the pulsing of psychotic bloodlines

I saw it in the saliva that fell down the side of his ranting face turned rabid

that guttural orgasm of the body leaping from the skin

the edge of a razor in your eyes

the veins ripping your neck apart.

the way the bulb shined on the face of these few…these few, I knew them

and how did I know them?

old nightsounds and rememberings

soul brothers in insanity

yes, we’ve been here before screaming child

why did you do this?

just look into the storm and tear yourself

white sheet shore and oceans drifting off I fell into clouds and was singing goldaline the same three lines over and over no one understands and now I cant even see the nurses, I am climbing a giant stairway and at the top is a clock and a woman calling at the top of the stairway but I run and I cant reach and the stairs fall out from under me and she has on a long black robe and she holds her hand but the clock spins and the stairs fall, and below me is the rocks and now im shattering and all the pieces fell into the ocean to sink and become sand. I fade…looks like the sedatives worked. I fall asleep drooling and watching a grey severed hand float above my head whispering lullaby, and he etches a message onto the ceiling with the black coal of shadow it says:

 

paint it over your door red,

 

because

you know the plague is coming.

 

paint it over the brow of your first born.

the pharaohs come to take him away.

 

paint it with the stench of sweet

in just the right symbols.

becuz

 

 you know the locust is running.

their drone stitching the wind

 

lambs blood for the first born

 and whores for your servants.

paint

 

you know the river’s running red

so why don’t you find it

fetch a pail and paint your doorway

in just the right symbols

eat it unleavened and dry when you whisper

your prayers

asking more

lambs blood for the first born

 

the pharaohs coming, darling, hurry.

I saw him on the television

 

slaughter like a necessary art and warn all the virgins

there might be cataclysms for the sinners

and might be earthquakes and might be rain fire so

 

 

be sure you know the right symbols

when you paint with lambs blood for the first born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image

dream

dream