Silver House: Scene Seventy-Six

Sitting on a caked bench, foot in spit and looking through the gates at the street. Strange faces floated around, smoking and thinking. Thinking about a score or something else. Some were too zoned out or heard voices. A cop car pulled up. Everybody slightly stood guard. The car slowly stopped. Two cops got out and opened the side door. A black guy got out. They uncuffed him and one of the cops pointed at the building behind me. Silver House. It's a place where the homeless reside. Crackheads, drunks and other walks of life. There was a cast of characters scattered behind the iron gates. They locked the courtyard. You could only look out at the wet streets. Everything was wet. Parked cars glistened in the streetlights and puddles were milky reflections in the street. I spit on the ground, mashing my cigarette into it.

Reefer paced back and forth, talking to himself. He wasn't making much sense at this point. Earlier in the night, he sat at a table in a room, drawing a picture. I asked him what it was and he said a staircase. It looked like an intricate spiral to me. I sat there playing guitar. But now he was talking to himself. Holes in his pants and intense eyes. It was a good night. In a way. Other people came in and out of the room and some would stay for a bit. Some guy said he played the blues. He couldn't. An old alcoholic. I wish he could've played the blues. I'd like to hear it.

Everybody disappeared and I was sitting alone now, except for some black guy that sat beside me. I'd never seen him before. Some crackheads hung out outside the gates. Somebody stood across the street, dripping in the rain. Leaves hung on the trees in the fall rain, dripping too in the electric light. I went back inside.

hopeless

walk with me,
talk with me,

do you disappear
when you go?

into a world
of nightmares

and your own
ghosts?

your bare room.

the moon
in the window,

and the maze
of trees below.

where's your bloody diary?
is it under your pillow?

wait till daddy finds it,
he's got stories of his own.

the phone rings.
it's the stalker boy.

the sky's black.

he left a message.

what is he saying?

what's going on
inside his ugly head?

you cry and cut yourself.

what's wrong with you?
i want to know.

I can't fix you.
you can't fix me.

we're hopeless.

another episode

today at the swamp
a huge bird
took off from
a lily pad
and eclipsed the sun

a childs laughter
echoed across the pond
through the vegetation
intermingled with
the soft rush of waves
from the swans flight

later the sorceress
gossiped about my
invisible presence
her words were painted
on the air in red

today

the sun
drips down
thick as honey

the green
landscape
unreal

crows fly
like
nightmares

across
the
blue sky

from
telephone
wires

to
distant
mountains

alcohol
melted time
yesterday

the clouds
look
like smoke

memories
haunt
me

even
this
moment

excerpt from a letter to my sweetheart

I was lost. I had nowhere to go. I walked among the zombies in the garden for too long. i followed the cracks in the sidewalk. hung out with rats. looking into faces for something i couldn't find in myself. i drank. took other drugs too. because the night is boring. and sunlight reveals nothing. stumbling down the path, toward the city. i collect bits and pieces with altered senses. walking past the garbage cans and homeless people. birds flying above. women with flowing hair. my mind wandering other landscapes. searching for something, always. i can feel the blood in my body, the flesh pulled over my skull. minute by minute. i experience the mystery of life. visions and feelings rise and disappear. i could speak my own unknown language, but instead, i will communicate with discipline and a precise anarchy. from the hole of my soul. i want to tell you what i've seen. where i've been... later... i found myself in a theater, still intoxicated, a cheap porno projected on the spinning screen. when i went to get up i was stuck to the seat. i tried to understand my situation within the broken lines of reality...

xo

reporting
from the island
of victoria
new dawns
on this
misted horizon

don't worry
i will cut off
little pieces
of myself
and mail them
to you

i will
spit in the ocean
and speak
only of secrets
sign my name
in blood
on my last letter

i will watch
obscure
pornography
brainwash myself
with repetition
and fear

violate
the landscape
of your
distant body
a thousand times
like violent footsteps
that break a new path

maybe
i could
save myself
before these
pieces run out
but then i would
have no reason to live

subconscious subtitles # 3087 ...

in the dirty room
i taste jealousy
and regret
in her white skins
salty sweat
watching
soldiers with guns
and bombs
in the oily
desert heat
here and there
five thousand
miles away
two different
kinds of wars
sitting on the couch
wanting
to punch the tv
and disappear

fireworks flashing
pom poms
from the chants
of phantom cheerleaders
a dead dog
and a football helmet
in orbit of the red sun
napalm trees
all flowing
in the glowing
ocean breeze
and later
crooked stars
and the moon
stabbing silver knives
through my
empty crystal skull

i've painted myself
into a corner
with my masterpiece
and my revolver
screaming
goodnight forever
her bruised tongue
piercing
the junkyard
of thoughts
with barbed wire lips
i am a prisoner
in her naked
concentration camp