It took about three hours to get back to Los Angeles Street from
Mission Avenue with its grandiose blocks of junked cars and guys who waved flags
like bull fighters guiding you into their shop driveways to get your muffler
repaired for $75. I thought about Hemingway’s story. Looking down at the dirty
greased earth wondering why I wasn’t dead that afternoon trying to find the
lesson or the meaning of that particular event in my life. I
became aware that at some point in my journey I would have to take control. My
higher mind would have to take control of myself come hell or high water,
against all gods, all demons, against all angels, against all saints, against
myself, against the world.
My body hurt and the concrete was harder than I had remembered. My
feet were pulsating with exhaustion. The worn sole of my right Chinese girl
shoe mouthed slowly at every step as it “peeoed-peeoed” at me like
baby birds demanding food. My left shoe was now a casualty strewn under a fire
escape at Werdin Place. I imagined my shoe embalmed with bum urine and
cigarette ash. My shoe had served me well. I just needed to get to the Cecil.
I never felt pity for myself until that moment. My one black sock
was still on my left foot and I stank like cigarette and latex. My navy blue hoodie
was torn at the nape where the hood connects to the body from where I was
pulled. It had scabby matted clots of blood and snot on the arm cuffs. I could
smell the blood iron sickly sweet rubbery odor ground into the fabric mesh of
my clothes. Memories of how well-groomed and perfect my mother and sister always
were wafted over my mind. Impeccable make up, pressed clothes, matching jewelry
and exquisite scents. Jasmines, roses, spices, musks; all offerings to the
heavens and here I was dirty deep into the marrow. Blood, spit and skin ground
into the tar. My body and feeble sanity violated.
I consoled myself by tearing the bandages off my throat and my left ring finger. The bandages caused me to admit defeat or worst yet, victimhood. I felt guilty thinking about my mom and her baubles. Those were her drugs and her costumes hiding scars my dad gave her both inside and out. I sat on the curve of Sunset and Spring St. amongst the scent of Peking duck and taquitos. I cried for my mother. I hated myself for crying just because I needed her. I didn’t deserve anything, so I just allowed myself to feel her pain like I did when I was a kid. I needed to punish my stupidity and my addictions. I didn’t like silks or jewelry anyway. I was too ugly. My mom never liked my nose, eyes or my boyish body. I was too short for her taste. I guess my father’s Portuguese genes were stronger than my mother’s German ones.
in my
mind i had run away again it was just a fantasy a longing to be missed the
truth was i was often absent from home and so was everyone else who lived there
a modern family i thought about visiting Mr. Petrucchio but it was early
evening he was probably asleep in his green upholstered chair with his brown
Ferragamos still on and Perry Como on the hi fi killing me softly was his
favorite
a weathered
bench behind the Cecil was waiting for me old gray plastic too hot to sit on in
the summer and always damp in the winter very decisive for a gray bench
i went to
biology class today the teacher spoke about how eggs become fertilized funny
because in English class we talked about how eggs are a symbol for rebirth life
all around i took out a clove and lit up watched the smoke defy gravity up past
my nose my eyes head and eventually gone to be part of the universal ozone
my mind
went slightly blank and into daydream mode thinking about the electricity of
boy chicken sperm fertilizing the girl chicken egg i chewed some of the black
polish off my left thumb and came to the realization that i had been an egg too
life was so intricate and fragile but forging forward man and beast go forth
and multiply
out of my
dream i snapped there was a four lane street between my bench and the old
warehouse across the street with the permanently shut back door that transients
used as a Murphy bed or toilet depending on the weather
at first
there was a loud white woman skinny like a sausage casing she was yelling and
flinging her arms wildly then two or three black folks gathered along side and
spoke loud enough in religious tones he dead he dead Lawd take ‘im ta heaven po’
sona bitch
my watch
said 5:57 p.m. another homeless person had passed in a door way i wasn’t sure
what to feel i was no stranger to corpses my grandmother chose to pass at her
home when i was a little kid and we didn’t have to wear seat belts driving
through the north 110 speedway i witnessed a man dying like a fish out of water
he was riding his motorcycle before that but had been hit and just left there i
didn’t do it then because i didn’t know i was just a kid but every now and
again i say a prayer for his soul
a small
crowd gathered at my bench as they watched the coroner’s van pull in to the
site one of the coroner’s people looked across the street at us and began
making his way toward my crowd while the dead man’s crowd shook their heads smoked
laughed yelled covered their mouths with their hand and then slowly left as the
PD hung their yellow tape the sign of seriousness and solemnity
unleash the ancient bones from the sewer sarcophagus
what tribe did they come from and is there crude running through the cavities
for we need another Dunkin Donuts on this corner for L Ron’s sake can you
please scroll faster my children tasted human contact and i don’t have the time
send the nanny to my third grader’s botox session i have roast goat yoga what
is it the Bhagavad Gita is that the new shoe store at the center can you believe
in something the tires of incongruence are filled with the holy toxins crossing
the bloodlines of the time while religiously binge ignoring what’s around the
glamour shots bus bench adverts warning homelessness is deadly unclear who they
speak of and all the while for 17 just 17 i dream of Mulholland Drive on a two
wheeled Pegasus can you hear me Jean Michel tell Andy that i love him the side
swiper in the ‘vette looking for the boys long in the teeth the industry
landlady needs new meat the volcanoes goofed on mick don’t feel duckie if he
fails to bring them mini daisies to their oxy chambers pharaohs in their
visions but down in the river racing cars on stolen clouds and i have a hardy
laugh spray cans looming large can i paint the past pantheons of our minds yes i
believe i can drop dropper dropped watch the hands watch the hands don’t look
directly in the mirror while you’re under a spell quite the riveter you are i
am the walkman helmet Rotten Johnny and Afrika Bambaataa with the Kiedis house
band weaving eckankar in my drums while we carve our knees into the side
pavements i didn’t know we couldn’t fly nothing takes out the stains of blood
