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