Since this post will no longer carry poetry, as I said, due to publishing concerns, it will now carry fiction or more precisely: a slightly experimental novel. It is as follows (more installments to come) (remember: everything is copyrighted but I'm generous about usage):
Call me Ratman. Or Ratty. The Ratster, Ratso, whatever. Can’t say I’ll answer to any of ‘em, I kinda live in my head most times. Roadside bomb in Desert Storm took ninety-eight percent of my hearing, one hip, some memory and a whole lot of caring, empathy, innocence. War takes a lot out all concerned but always gives back: a lifelong injury that leads to perseverance; an experience that makes a mean man, generous or a generous man mean; a coward becomes courageous, courage abandons macho bullies; lovers hate and haters love; the first one now will later be last. So, war took my hearing but I’ll be looking for you.
I move forward toward ambition, money, a choke hold. Behold: junkie steal, junkie sell, junkie score. The city is electric! Electrifried! A zap in the teeth! A Jolt in the pants! The city is big in planet dress tonight, handsome hat. Bold the bridges, every man and woman is pimping in fine spread tonight. It’s a good feeling so. God just wanna live, give his son only to save His ass. Into New York City I do pass. This the place to be, papers say so. Feel me so. Must be.
Homeless, me and my wife, too, in different places. Lost track so very long ago. Live now in garbage. No excuse that daddy was shot-gunned down and mama OD’d one too many. I long for a vacant basement, singing overhead trains. God glassine captured like a funk on blue, a disease of worship. He rich with so much groovability. Tonight, an alley will do, tell truth. Like it fine but sleep be trouble. Always alert, moving endless white-scared in a Harlem squat. Enough to drink, easy dreaming like Jesus do.
I copy the city, camouflaged in the uniform of poverty, invisible. It takes diligence to avoid breathing in an atmosphere of addictive repulsiveness. I don’t have it. Walk it, talk it, hip, lip, all the place over. It ain’t me, babe. It’s hope time, dope time. Time to say nope time but I ain’t ever said no to nohing or no one. Like the dumb fuck, I tripped over last Saturday. Big ol’ happy man was he as he woke to the day’s new trials. He wipes snot from his nose, flings it off like throwing a Frisbee and watches it lodge itself on my libido, laughing like a castrato leprechaun. I offer him my cold coffee and a cig, you know, for waking him up, tripping over his long ass skinny legs look like they couldn’t lift themselves let alone hold up a big blimp body like this boy got. Wiped my chin, wiped it on his jeans. I thought,
what a son of His doing all crossed up like that?
hung
like
a
bottle o’ wine
over
too
many
people
dead
he a kick in the shin
a stick in the side
he gone wake with some kinda pain crucified, dead & merried.
This dumb fuck big happy man shakily takes the coffee & cig, thinking this Ratty Man a gent, prince, goddamn! Hero of the drunken incoherent: a stupor hero! Laugh his ass off Big Dumb Fuck as Ratty perplexed looks, but a smile land on his lips like confusion, then recognition. Dumb Fuck so not dumb but a fuck he be. Drops the lit cig in the coffee cold and the entire cup into the gutter goes. Apologizing, Dumb Fuck explain, “First payday, get fuck drunk with the other grunts. One of the boys be I. Strip joint, hot, oppressive in protrusion of flesh and rich smell of money, liquor, oil light swirling. Slick oblivion. Drink up, boys celebrate, lose it all first paycheck. Drink, drink, drink that mickey drink.”
Dumb Fuck remember the last bill, slipped into panties stinky, topped by little belly bounce and big titties, bouncy, bouncy. ‘Cause wake with a kletzmer head, licorice stick whiny beyond tolerance, he will. No control. In this world, spinning still gladding to be alive, waking in corner cement comfort. Earthbound in Chinatown. Slam the noisy spices, cut, cut, chomp, chomp. Empty the mind, empty the cranium, thank yourself you’re still alive.
Say Ratty-me, after talking small while sobering up Dumb Fuck, “Water fresh air of Coney just the trick. Live, we, in the garbage of Babylon, fly the dead to Miami, home of the Devil and the super-rich. The world become real here. Mirrors hold music captive in your brain, it’s time for self-betrayal. The bod be a temple o’ pleasure.” A jaunty girl garish skipping by sings gabrito, “this an awful place, a goddamn awful place, them mirrors whacked outside the truth.”
Ask Dumb Fuck,”What truth?”
“What? Speak up!" I cupped my right ear to hear.
Raising his voice, Dumb Fuck asked,“The truth? The truth of flashy neon signs, paint peeling, hank o kosher. . .hair of dog. . .Catholic bing. . . Chin take-out or the truth of the shysters spewing boardwalk songs of commerce, state o’change for everyone! New Marylands! The devil gone pecker a new born daddy in a go for broke game of chance! or the truth of drunk pickpockets in no delicate plunder misplacing their fingers?
Sure, we’re smart to stay away from bullets, night after night flying. Instead, we ride the train, the night after Night Train.
****************************************************************************
