Virus Interlude

"I've never seen meaning in a morning mist

Nor meditated to stillness in a northern sky

I've felt the rush of youth, the tumult of wasted time

Always the rancour and drunkenness and ineptitude of escaped years

Dice rolled from this Atlantic City hand, robbed by a midnight darkness

Penniless from what was stolen, what came easy went easily by lust in place of loneliness

I can't recall my fiance's name, nor see her face

The past is all anyone knows, but a virus clipped our memory

A park is where I live in sickness

From hand out plastic bags I eat the left overs from others

I can't call her name, any name...only a sense of an eternal garden and nothingness

Just a constant fever

A weakness from hunger

Like others who host the virus within 

In late November I lay back on winter grass

I stare straight at stars and close my eyes

No Godly vision, only a darkness foretelling a brightness 

Snow covers me, each flake melting on this fevered skin

With open eyes I firstly meditated to a Northern Sky...and saw meaning in a waiting sea."

                                                     --The Nothing Man

 

                                                        

 

 

Virus V

Dawn's sharp edge. The next night seems far away. 

Early rain falls into a cold November drizzle. 

 

Snow had fallen freely in the park. A man in a rust coloured cap had slept. 

 

A homeless virus took away his soul. He waits with other soulless men, who remember only half of what they lived. 

The line moves slowly. A morning angel serves them coffee and bread.

The windows look like they are crying. The bricks sound as if they are breathing sick air. Heavy and labouring in sorrow. The nothing man feels warm. A fever set up in his skin days ago. His lungs cough like the bricks' sick air. The memory is nearly gone. 

 

The delirium before the dying? 

........The cold before the cure?

The line of nothing men move slowly. The angel in the distance pours coffee and hands out warm bread. The man can't recall her distant face. Just as he can't remember his fiancee's name.

But the sensation comes, with each slow step. Like a saxophone solo playing by Coltrane. Like an Alabama dirge. The crescent moon in the sky. 

 

He sees her long flowing hair tied by a white mask. 

 

A memory comes back. 

She wanted to be a nurse, help the homeless. Forgotten men who barely knew their name. Before the disease came. It was Coltrane. 

 

He can hear the music along the crying windows. Hear it past the breathing  bricks.

In the late fall when snow turns to rain. Is it her? He waits in line. Is the fever breaking? Is he starting to feel alright? Soon he will sip coffee, feel warm bread. Maybe he'll know her name.

Virus IV

A man who didn't know his name waited in line

The rain soaked his rust coloured cap. Ran along his old overcoat

When the rain became a drizzle he still felt weakness in his veins

Soon the line would move slowly, 

when the church would feed morning coffee and bread to the viral young

Afflicted by a mystery disease that had come with the summer sun

A fever that never runs down, a cough that pains the lungs

Some had died, 

None could recall their names

Only the sense, the outline of a story that was

The nothing man tried to remember her name

He was to marry her, 

On his birthday she gave him a cap, the autumn colour matched his coat

It kept him warm on homeless nights

Kept him dry from the rain

Slowly the line began to move

Men coughed and dragged their feet, none could remember

An empty bus came

The team wore masks and lifted the sidewalk dying and dead onto the empty seats

Some lain on the floor

He sensed the summer garden, when they were together, when he asked her for her hand

Slowly the line began to move, drizzle came from the rain

The summer garden,  

He coughed, felt weakness

He saw in the distance a young woman in kindness give coffee and bread to nothing men

He wanted to see her face, he wanted to know her name

The man dreamed of the summer garden where he felt oneness and touched nature's hand

 

 

Virus III

When streaks of snow changed into a cold morning rain, a rust coloured cap was pulled over virus eyes. An old grey overcoat was pulled high against fevered skin.

A man who once knew his name lifted himself from the park bench where he had slept. In his sickness he walked unsteadily through drowning leaves.

 

Between the trance and the living

........Between the delirium and the dead 

An infection had swept the land. Had stolen the minds of the young. The incompleteness of memory. Only the sense of what was. The symptom of nothingness. The nothing man.

He stood at the edge of the park and waited till the traffic passed. A cough came to his throat as he walked across the street and wove like time through the wandering men. Among the afflicted he had joined the mutterers: "What is my name? What is my name?" Over and over they said.

 

The man took a pair of dice from his pocket and turned them inside his hands. He stumbled but steadied his feet. He had dropped the Atlantic City dice. They rolled along a puddle and drew snake eyes. He left them behind. The nothing man.

He waited in a sweaty line. Coughing men, waiting for coffee and bread. Waiting for the snakes in rainy stew. Waiting for threaded memories of time.

 

 

Virus II

Against a November cold, a man awoke on fire

Beads of disease rolled down his face like dice

Along his neck the perspiration fell beneath the woolen coat he pulled up high 

On the park bench he slept against the streaks of snow

He dreamed of summer trees

A rainbow after a July rain

Then the bracing wind

Against his burning

His temperature rose

He shivered and awoke

The chills came and went, 

Then they came and accompanied the night

He tried to cover his face

But his wool coat was too thin

His hands too frail 

Once he knew his name

Now he knew nothing was forever

Not the coldness in his bones

Not the heat of his virus skin

Nothing remains in the end

Not an autumn moon 

Not a jarring wind

Someday it all ends

Someday it all ends

The winter becomes the spring

The spring becomes the willow of trees

In time the fever mends

He tried to carve a forgotten name in the halo of snow 

His rust coloured cap fell to the ground

And in a dream he slept beneath a fallen summer rain

 

 

Virus

Two cold donuts. Coffee's wayward steam. 

A rust coloured cap sits atop uncut hair. A thick grey overcoat is pulled up high along its collar.

With bare fingers the man sips his coffee. He takes a small bite from a glazed donut.

It is just past evening.

A first frost covers fallen gold and red leaves. They shimmer under the street lights. Streaks of snow land on the man’s eyes, and melt in his coffee. He belongs on the wood bench. As forgotten as an empty park.

He once knew his name. But now he doesn’t remember much. Except for a trip to Atlantic City.

A virus came and stole half of his memory. Just as it robbed others.

He sensed what his life once was. He knew he had an apartment not so long ago. A job. Friends. A young girl who he would marry—start their lives together.

But the virus swept through the country. It crippled the minds of the young.

So many left to wander.

They lived in a numbed insanity.

They could not remember names.

They could only remember the outlines of events.

Like his trip to Atlantic City.

He and his buddies tossed dice at Taj Mahal. They won so much. More than all they’d ever been paid. That night they decided to get laid.

They woke up groggy eyed. The silent girls had grifted more stole' money than they’d ever seen.

The black cops laughed: “You white boys so dumb. Those girls were too hot for you. You should of known you being played. You’ll never forget Atlantic City.”

The man couldn’t remember, but he sensed his winnings. He sensed what he lost.

He drank the last of the coffee. Bit the last of the donut. The snow fell about his feet. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his fiancee’s name.

But he couldn’t. Just the dice in Atlantic City.

 

Adapted From Instagram

I am that left hook. I am that Bukowski number--maybe number three. I am Chandler in a fedora as black as a midnight alley. I am the last cry between a murdered soul and the morning dove's first cry. I am the singer of sorrow who plays to the cloudy smoke from a never rising. I am the slow credits of a film noir. I am the end. I am the alley.

 

 

Burning Leaves

I bought matches from a cigarette shop

Wooden with a sulphur tip

I took dry autumn leaves from a dark park

Gathered them together in a circle 

I lit them like dried tobacco, and danced

The flames warmed my cold skin

The smoke filled my eyes 

The smoke settled deeply in my soul

I danced till the flames fell to embers

Till the last of the smoke drifted into the night

I said a breathless good-bye, and left the matches behind

The midnight bus would come soon, take me cross-city to my home

An old radiator kept me warm,

I fell asleep in a feathered bed and dreamed of burning leaves inside my soul

Sleep

I met a crazy man way down a long street,

Where other crazy men live, 

Where mad woman live as homeless as the night, 

I met a crazy man way down a long street

Over the voices of disquieted stars and a blood red moon

I listened to him speak

All the words came out at once

Spinning stories of his forever kingdom, where he is always young

He ruled the cracks in the sidewalks, so he said

The poison in his drugged veins were his subjects

What is forever young to the mad king of the streets?

I promised his mother I would look for her boy

Bring him back from his kingdom, away from the long street

Where she could feed him a warm meal

Clean his clothes

Let him wash away the soil from his skin

Let him sleep in a long bed till the drug demons in his head are no more

But he said he knew no such mother

He cried his true mother was as mad as a homeless night

Waiting on a Know Good Friend

Standing on a street corner

I got a leather glove over each hand

My green overcoat hangs,

The collar is turned up

With a black wool scarf tied around my neck

A fur hat lives snugly on my head

I am warm, but the snow is blowing--the wind stings my uncovered skin

My friend was supposed to be here soon, he said

But it is well past noon

Always a bad time to meet, when it is winter and the snow is blowing

I put a leather gloved hand over my face,

then pull the scarf over my frostbit lips

This friend has so much control,

I always bail him out when he can't pay his bills

Buy him booze, just the expensive whiskies

He never pays me back

Drinks too much,

Plays drum in bad local rock n' roll band

His own brother says he manipulates people, and thinks I'm a fool

Ten extra dollars in my pocket, waiting for a friend

I pull my fur hat down over my eyebrows; streaks of snow blind my eyes

No one is on the street, just me in a green overcoat

Where is he, probably snug in bed

Why I do these things, I don't know

I could be home, listening to Lou Reed

Maybe his song Heroin

The Velvet Underground

Play good music on my turntable

Instead of going round in circles playing the fool to a no good friend

I oughta' go home,

turn up the heat

When he calls, hang up the phone

I guess I'm addicted to helping everyone,

Women who know when to cry,

Smooth talkin' strangers, who lie about the seven seas

Good people

Evil people

Half dressed ladies sighing about lonely love

That's what I'll do

In five minutes, that's what I'll do...

Stop waiting for a friend 

Stop waiting for a friend 

I don't do booze 

I don't do drugs

Like Lou Reed says:

"I guess, I just don't know"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xcwt9mSbYE

Spring 

Remember when we stood at the end of the world. We walked a lost forest. Then ran through autumn leaves. The God of Winter cried icy through the hollow trees. Only our thin wool to keep us barely warm we inched to the earth's edge. The God of the Universe turned us round and pointed us home. Past the tall, cold grass--against the cold prairie wind we walked closer to our family. They didn't believe a word their two children said--about what's at the earth's ends. The God of the Universe is our friend. The God of Winter cries through hollow trees. We said its not so far: just over the hill and past the prairie grass is the lost forest with autumn leaves that touch the world's edge. It was getting late, mother fed us. Father read us the bible before bed. That night I harvested a far away dream. In months, together once again, we shall journey to feel the warmth of a Godly spring.

Key Largo

Once I fell a sleep at a picture show

It was cold out, 

I had nowhere to go

It was late at night

There was no home

Just a nickel and an empty pocket

So I went to the picture show

The marque lights blinked like dying eyes

Yellow to orange, one after another

The hours of black and white 

The smell of old cigarettes 

This was my all night home

A girl without a glance sold tickets

The stale balcony was always closed

I sat in a crooked row

I heard the low sounds of muttering 

Bottles somewhere broke against the concrete floor

The whirl of 35 film reeled

Bogart smoked, Bacall should of broke

Key Largo on the go

The screen turned to a heavenly brightness

I saw scatterings of the theater crowd

Their faces appeared as they seemed

Some were awake, some asleep, 

These were different people

All alone

One man smoked... he crazy-smiled to himself

He was no Bogart, he had no Bacall

I grew more weary

I had nowhere to go

It was cold out

No nickel in my pocket

My eyes weighed as heavy as pennies

That's when I fell asleep 

I fell asleep,,,asleep in the picture show

Oh, no

Oh, no

Oh, no

One man watches another asleep in the picture show

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGftnl0KtUY

Never Been

Like being nostalgic for a place you've never been

Like reminiscing about people you've never known,

Nothing to hold back your longing dreams

Nothing to hold in place your wandering thoughts

As long as you can think you are free

As long as you can breathe the summer air

Some day your long, lost suffering will end

Some day you and me will go home to that place we've never been

Hold the people we've never known

Come down from the mountains

Walk the winter plain

Hold tight against the desert winds

Some day our long, lost suffering will end

Some day you and me will go home to a place we've never been

God of Rain 

We the crazed spirits in flight. 

Scared Banshees screaming through the aftermath. 

The man made fire burned the mountain forest.

A million trees, a billion branches.

Swallows taken to flight from the flames of fiery hell. 

Wailing animals seared into the dried tears of soil.  

Mad souls we floated between life and death. The smoke and haze filled our eyes. The charcoal trees felled. The mountain streams drowned in ashes. 

Don't you know what we're thinking? Us crazy banshees. 

Taking a vengeful shelter from these human forms. 

Electric company sparks burned this family earth. 

We fly high, scream to our God of Rain. 

Replenish the soil with your showers and hail. 

Replenish the the human form. 

We fly in screaming judgement. 

Our spirit instincts breathe the smokey haze of these man made flames.

So Say

Working a field I saw clouds like worn sleeves.

The sky as faded and frayed as torn blue jeans.

I lifted my sweat stained straw hat. Dried my head with a rhubarb red hand kerchief.  

My eyes blinded by the sun.

I raked the pebbled, sandy earth. Small clouds of dust rose to my knees and floated  to the ground. Autumn rain would fall soon.

A weariness walked the calloused prairie soil.

The boss would let us go home early. I'd leave my clothes on a lake's shore and swim across the water.  I would sleep naked on the opposite shore. By early morn I'd swim to my old work clothes. The sun would take time to dry my rhubarb red skin. So say to the field: I am late. But I am as wise as worn sleeves and as smart as frayed blue jeans.

The Night
She keeps her shame under a pillow
Her honour tied up with stabbing sheets
The motel neon light burns brightly
Another man, another night
Desperate hours, drunken by time
Cheap booze
Burning cigarettes
Addicted to drugs
How else does a girl make money, but at night?
A motel clerk doesn't raise his eyes
Doesn't see the ball and chain, the needle marked veins
Room 9 has thick walls
No one to hear the moans mixed with tears
One night it's a preacher man
Another night the mayor's son
Some nights it's high school graduate boys, two and three at a time
By morning it's her rising
Thin toast and a sweet orange,
Fake names
Fake moans
Torpor veins awash her glassy eyes
Twenty more dollars and a lonesome walk into town,
By night another pillow will bury her shame
A cheap motel will be her home
But no mayor's son will know the dream buried with the shame

Old Linoleum
Fate is the name of a bar. It is where idled men with old dreams drink. It  is where you can see their lives carved on their faces. Carved by a switch blade, or by a broken bottle, or by a slashing, cheated spouse with a kitchen knife; when a bloodied life bleeds onto the damnation of old linoleum. That is their fate. The name of a bar.

Donkey's Bray
I walked a one flicker ghost town,
Like a single spark in a desert night sky
From end to end I saw no one
I knew no one's name
Abandon lights burned behind dusty windows
The last of smoke floated from iron chimneys
Where had they gone?
The six shooter cowboys,
Long skirted wives in billowing dresses
Young boys dressed like their gun slinging fathers
Young girls dressed like their mother's to be
Where have they gone?
Only the grey donkeys bray,
I heard the squeaking sounds of swaying signs in the hot wind
The doors to the undertaker's workshop were open
Fresh pine caskets lined its walls,
I stole some water from a pump
Drank it from my palm
I soaked my bandanna and washed my face
The forgotten Cat House looked like a good place to sleep
I could grab a free beer at the empty saloon
But in the distance I heard the sounds of gunfire
I saw the flames of a desert fire
There was no turning back
I heard a song where it sang Time will Tell
I walked from the town,
I heard more gunfire
The desert flames grew larger
Maybe in time the next town will tell
Or perhaps I will only hear a donkey's empty bray

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wepBAVq_3jQ

The Storm
To you,
I don't have time to bless the night
I don't have time to pray for a new day
Too many years have passed
Too many nights have let me down
All my prayers for a new day go untold
I say there is beauty, freedom with an aging soul
Like clouds streaming before the storm
Escaping from the fire and lightning, the deluge that drowns us
No blessings from the night
No sacraments to the new day
Just as you, I am on my own
With this shortness of breath, a slow beating heart,
My life winds down,
Over the years that remain, I pass this wisdom on to you with your rising years:
All this emptiness of time will someday pass,
Be as the clouds that stream before the storm

Promises
It was early night,
when I sat on the edge of my bed
It's sheets barely made
My whispered words fell like a soft, crazy rain
The promises I made. The promises I made.
When my dreams were young, I envisioned a rendezvous
I promised myself, I'd meet a star someday,
Destiny would carry me with its great wings
Floodlights lighting up a stage
I'd know adoration of millions and a universe of fame
Every night applause would make my silk bed
I'd sing great songs, my life in key, I'd never fly from grace
But the promises I made I never kept,
The enemy of  talent and dreams kept me down, self doubt gripped my soul
I was never lit by a stage's flood lights
No one praised my name
I sat on the edge of my bed, and crossed my soul
The Promises I made. The promises I made.
At the same time of night I took the wired threads of passion and held them tight
I watched the sky light up
First the distant stars, then the moons and planets, I bowed to the great galaxies, and rendezvoused  with the applause of the Great Milky Way
By dawn my hand would release and make way for a universe's new day
I would lay back on a bed  barely made

Pearly
It was at dusk,
I stood on a dock and looked at the stillness of a Cold Canadian lake,
I breathed like autumn leaves,
Breaths of gold..and brown...red like a distant Harvest Moon
When a late mist crossed the water I thought I saw my soul
Fallen leaves floated passed the dock
They spelled my childhood name in brown and gold, the water a near red
My wool coat kept me warm, but I knew when the night falls, the cold would be too great
By morning the lake could freeze and the leaves could be frozen in ice,
My misty soul could skate away to be free,
I returned to the cottage. I listened to the warm laughter of old logs,
The space in between let in a cool air against the pearly fireplace
I heard the whisper of my dreams
I fell asleep to the breath of autumn leaves
I awoke to Harvest a misty morning soul...on the ice of a Canadian lake

Remains
My old leather boots will always tell
The story of a dusty western night,
Under the dryness of desert stars, I walk into a ghostly saloon
A shroud of a crazy name made for me: Lady Apparition
A room empty of human hearts
The Last of drifting smoke floats along air
Fallen Cigarette ash covers a rough hue floor
My boot's worn rubber heels take me to the bar
I spin the top of a three leg stool,
Counterclockwise, it turns as an old album,
Like a warped vinyl with a warbling sound; beatified by a scratchy diamond ring
My face plays a one man wanderer on a dusty mirror
Lady Apparition, pour me a five dollar glass of  dry red wine
Instead she pours me a glass of five dollars of her time
She says all her life she chases after shame
Hollow, callus men who cruise and bruise her midnight soul
The drugs and heartache
Near death, the loneliness cries at a saint's fallen gate
I ask her name
She returns with a nameless smile
I said she's like a shiny link in a rusty chain
Lady Apparition disappears into clouds of smoke, ashes are her remains
I drink from the last glass of time
My old leather boots always tell
The end of the story of five dollar remains

The Walk
I walk outside
A cemetery in the distance.
I approach the dying gate, where the air is thin
Where the blood flows fast, but the heart beats low
The twilight is near, before the sun dies against the maddening moon
I walk past the dying gate
Up the long maple tree hill
In the near darkness I've come to read words
Flashes of narrow light along carved  granite stone
I read the date of birth, the date of death
Like an eternal magician I try to raise a soul, free it from the moon's fate
But I hear a raven's cry,
I imagine it swooping hidden by the darkness
The soul does not rise,
My heart feels low
I walk the distance
Not certain if the cry of darkness will lead me home

Grounder
I pedal a bike as old as a memory,
To a time when I was as the wind
When I coasted down a summer lane
I pedal along a sandy diamond,
Where young boys play ball
I hear the crack of a bat
I wave eternal dust from my eyes,
I taste chalky clouds on my lips
We boys run hard along base lines
Throw a ball from outside
Field grounders
Argue over fouls, balls and strikes, safe or out
A hero climbs a pitcher's mound
Wheels go by
When twilight comes, the ball is hidden by the sky
The muscles are worn
We boys pedal our bikes,
The gloves hang over handle bars
The strongest rests the bat atop his shoulder
In the weary race against darkness we ride home
Tomorrow is another game against time
And I wonder sometimes what is the fate of those lives
Like shifting gears of a boy's bike
Years go by

Brahms
I'll meet you outside Symphony Hall
Where the violins play
Where a prodigy touches white keys
Where a conductor dances batons as sharp as needles
Where silver haired men in bespoke suits carry front row tickets and lead the hands of mink draped women in strapless dresses
Where they huddle, then move through open oak doors nearly as old as the day Mozart slumped into a pauper's grave
I'll meet you outside Symphony Hall
But in the hours past the evening performance
When the paupers come out of their graves
I'll meet you by the musicians' entrance
I got your call
You're a junkie now,
Since Julliard, when they said you were the next Stern
When you raised the soul of Brahms with your violin
When you stuck pathway needles of melted white junk into your veins
I'll meet you outside Symphony Hall, again
This time is different, again
When you'll give up the junk, again
Get off the streets
Start to play once more
You just need one more fix, you need money and sugared sweets
I'll meet you by the musicians' entrance
And give you the money, give away the strung out sweets and listen to your beggared story
Because, why?
Because I hear the crying souls of Brahms and Stern in your last, dying voice, again.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oykarLuFoS8

It Happened 
When you left me, I broke.
I shattered like brittle old glass--
Breaking on a hard wood floor
Shards cutting the bottom of my naked feet,
Not too deep,
Just little streaks of a man's blood,
Alone I sat on my saggy powder blue couch with old whiskey stains
I twisted my foot sideways on my knee and took tweezers and pulled out the broken glass
Small tears rolled down my cheeks, and rested on my bottom lip and tasted like salty whiskey stains
I called my friend Eddy and told him another girl left me
He asked if brittle glass broke on a hard wood floor and if its shards bloodied my naked feet.
I said, Yeah
He said: I hate when that happens

Rock 'n' Roll Star
Once I was a rock 'n' roll star
With a blazin' guitar,
Lit by pulsing lights and a smokey stage
Blonde girls, Birds with flyin' wings
Risin' to hear me sing, to touch and feel my strings
Once I was a rock 'n' roll star
But only in an old boy's dreams

Now I have been reborn to jazz
The grace of Coltrane
The Spirit of Charlie Bird
The soulfulness of Miles
I am a Good Man now,
I embrace the beauty of jazz when I listen to its reverent sound
But when I sleep, I still dream I was a boy,
...and command every time...
Oh Jazz Man Masekala!! Play your South African Trumpet like a rock 'n' roll star. With my electric guitar we play loud to Byrds with flyin' wings!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMoop0rn780

Ghost Warriors
A young boy looked through the frost of a winter window. He saw his father dressed in thick wool clothes bring down an ancient ax to split frozen logs.  The father put the chopped wood  in a large canvas bag.  He hoisted the bag over his powerful right shoulder as he made his way through the snow back to the farm house.

The young son waited and felt proud and secure as he opened the door for his father. The boy felt the cold wind and heard the laughter of nervous work horses from the stable. With his small, strong hands he helped guide the bag of logs to the wooden floor and dragged them to the fire place. He placed a couple of logs into a fire. They steamed and burned poorly.

His mother stood over him and spoke with kindness. “We have enough wood for a fire for tonight. You must sleep. Tomorrow we must travel far.”

The boy nodded. He overheard his parents speak of the same dream they had the night before. The same dream that villagers and settlers across their country land had: of deadly ghost warriors arisen from the past…and of the villagers' ancestors, without reason or mercy, savaged and slaughtered. The old. Children in their slumber. Women crying hopelessly for life. The warriors were returning—the dream foretold. To slaughter the descendant settlers of this land.

Were the horses strong enough for the journey? The mother asked the father. He said they were, if the road to the forest was not too long. They would join the caravan. They would settle and fortify behind the tall trees and kill the ghost warriors with axes and sharp tools. The mother began to weep.

The young boy went to his room. He stood atop his bed and pretended to swing his arms as if he held an ancient ax. By morning he believed he would be strong like his father and would fight the ghost warriors behind the same tall trees.

A Thousand Monkeys
A man stepped into another cold morning
Human fog glistened 
Human skin turned as red as blood
A woolen cap was pulled over his ears
Melton gloves covered his hands
He looked up and down the street and saw no one,
But he heard the sound of footsteps made louder by the slowing molecules of the cold
He heard more steps, like an army, but saw no faces, no human forms
For a moment he felt fear, but that passed with the gust of wind that sang like an icy whistle
Then he heard more frozen steps…louder and louder…but still no human forms
He heard the cries of screaming death, of gunfire
Then a thousand clouds of human steam rose up past the street lights and ascended into the disappearing night sky
The man pulled off his cap
He pulled off his gloves
He cupped his ears and then held his eyes, then covered his mouth like Nikko snow monkeys
That night he sat in a steamy bath and feared he saw evil but could not speak its name