But the streets called… and I was where the curse had brought me. My head is bacchantly numb still and the streets brawl with juveniles in search of pleasure zones. It had rained the night before, and now the alleys carry the stench of stale armpits. I call The Common Man and ask for a place to crash; and we arrange a rendezvous at the blizzard clime of conned eateries. I meet him slouched in affluence’s décor with a drink at hand. A blazing cigarette and a female companion posing her serenity with pride. I am looking distraught, tired and charred by travel, the Township stench creased with the wrinkles of scotch. I ask him dearly if this won’t be a nuisance… and he’s calm with an answer that’s bright with concerned fright. He is also house-sitting. And stuck in a domain of fevered pockets as well, we hassle for coinage for a short trip out the bustle and bedlam of Bree Street and head north. But… he has to first wait on another culprit in the land of the beat of another kind.
Having being trusted with a key to a foreign abode I lunge forward towards the Taxi and board a trip to my nest for the night. Incidentally, I arrive a street away from my last head resting pillow… with Her. Her, again. There is surely something in the way of this misadventure. I watch myself fall like a feather off a wing of luck; acertitute overwhelming… that this is a method of alchemy from sources unfathomable and that which behoves me to act out my rage.
I arrive and the place is filled with books. Walls covered with page stink, and fossilized brain laboratory for a bedroom, I marvel at Bell Hooks lynching the myths about black masculinity and I feel vindication of a somber kind. I read it before he returns, that as soon as he rings his arrival I’d had kissed the better parts of my life good-by, and sacrificed all in the fire places innards. The house is an ethereal library of leftist literature, Dostoevsky, Pastenak and the like of other Soviet psalms of suffering. I love it here, reading blindly into my reverie that the nightmare would end. The silence, and then the film I watch called Steel City enrapturing me. The minor joint of marijuana, the tobacco breath growing shrubs in my muddied lungs… I cough and the echo is beyond repair. I know I have to cease the hiding from the stars of my end… I feel them creeping…
Suddenly I recall a friend I shared a house with, and how she spoke of a death of a child in nursery school. About how caregivers prostrated themselves on the floors, in mass hysteria, of how children cried while her performance troupe sang jingle bells accompanied by a weeping pianist. And she wept bluntly with placid pain – a bleeding toddler in her palms, feeling like an integer within the positive scheme of things…whence they whispered the soothsaying that she was the elect to usher this infantile soul into its after-life. She said he was in a good place yes, but why? when she was praying that he might not die… There stood a puddle of blood in the middle of the playroom, minor minds chiseled to shreds by a deformed view calm of their familiar space. The elders were kept at bay, their weeping frightened the young. The jingle went blazing through this death chorale, the one who attempted mouth to mouth resuscitation pallid with awe. The Head Chef eventually rings about a throng of horny feminists in town, I am far from that space I tell him: I cannot deal with women right now…
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