The Family

Written on December 29, 2008 after some rich bastards hit on my sister, the bartender.

There's a cool breeze sweeping over the distant mountains, across the frigid valley to the window in front of my desk. It's a long journey before it comes to an abrupt halt due to the invisible barrier set out to keep me warm. The chill here cuts through clothing in the sort of indiscriminate fashion that a thief feels when viewing an opportunity. The job is done regardless of the consequences. The thief will steel the wallet from a cop. The wind will blow through windproof clothing.

Less than twenty four hours ago I was schmoozing with the wealthy suburbanites at a bar in northern New Jersey, pretending to give a fuck about their right winged viewpoints spouted by voices lubricated with expensive scotch. If you tell them what they want to hear you can fit in, regardless of your present garb. They believe that the man wearing the ripped sweatshirt and jeans faded from many walked miles is on their side and the sign is muttered by the cigar toned comment towards the bartender when they say, "Put his drinks on my tab." Now it's off to the races with fifteen year old single malts, or perhaps a fine double mellowed bourbon with no ice. They'll talk more as the glasses empty. I'll sip and set into the mood to give them a chance at understanding.

The man on my right is happily dressed in Versace and wears a sultan's worth or gold on his fingertips. The keys to his Porsche sit on the bar next to him while he comments on the bartender's looks. Little does this swine realize that the bartender is my sister and that my smile only hides the fantasies of slashing each one of his thousand dollar tires on the way out. But that's another moment and I'll let it go for now. The man's name is Tony and the bulge in his front right jacket pocket is probably a gun, or maybe just a wad of credit cards and folded bills meant to look like the profile of a gun to the less-than-learned folk who will allow him to intimidate. Let the sun of a bitch pull a gun and think about taking a shot. I'll have him on the ground in less than a second. He may carry arms, but I carry the indifferent madness that only the thief and the wind know. It's a good thing he's buying the scotch, otherwise I might have never given him the chance to speak.

In walks a beautiful blonde whose beauty fades as she mistakenly walks through a brightly lit section of the hallway where her pulled and peeled plastic face comes into view. Her high heels double her size and the tight red dress covers no more than a third of her body leaving much of her chest and thighs in full view. Her fake, firm manufactured ass was probably hanging out but I gave up on watching the staggering half-breed and went back to sipping scotch. She sat aside Tony. He greats her with that Italian charmed. She's a high priced whore but I'd rather take a nap than get serviced by her collagen lips.

All along my sister, Alicia, watches from behind the bar, scrubbing glasses and serving patrons gin and tonics with the occasional chardonnay for their young diamond clad women. Tony is the only one drinking scotch, besides me, at this point. I am enjoying a smooth glass of that double mellowed bourbon that is costing Tony twenty six dollars per pour. Alicia finishes scrubbing the last glass and looks at me before walking into the back room through the swinging double door. I look down at the glass and take the final swig before slamming down on the table and interrupting Tony's conversation with the once beautiful blonde. It's Christmas Eve and it's time to make a scene.

"So, Tony, who is this filthy slut you've got sitting on your crusty lap," I say starring straight at him, "She looks like a fuckin' man." He drops his glass on the bar and stands from his stool as the wench tries to spit in my face before falling to the side of the bar.

"Who the fuck do you think you are," he says reaching into that front right bulge I momentarily wondered about earlier. It becomes apparent in the split second before the contents of his pocket come into full view that this man is ruled by his emotions, that his out of shape body does not have the ability to fight back, and that his blonde companion would be used as a shield if the opportunity presented itself. The jacket opens and a silver Smith and Wesson comes out with hopes of getting the right perspective to send a led slug into my left frontal lobe. I move to the right kicking the stool out from under me when the first bullet is fired. He yells again, "I'm gonna fuckin kill you."

The gun swipes sideways, and I grab the barrel, swinging it around, jarring the handle out of his golden grip. He looks at it for a second before diving behind the bar. Then Alicia walks out through the swinging doors with a twelve gauge, inviting the man to give her a reason to place two shells worth of buck shot into his chest. The other patrons, now huddled under their tables, make no movement as Tony stands in silence to greet the face of her weapon, the site of the short woman with the cannon.

"You fucking whore. Who the fuck do you think you are?" Tony says towards my sister. There is no hesitation as I drop the barrel of his weapon which rests gently in my hand to fire a shot into the side of his right knee cap.

"Don't call my sister a whore," I say calmly, as I walk around the bar placing the gun to his forehead. Alicia holds strong and says nothing. I reach into his pocket and remove his wallet. "You just fucked with the wrong man," I say, "but thanks for the scotch." After those words I pull the trigger one last time sending the back of his head onto the floor in pieces too small to see.

I look over at Alicia who is keeping a lookout for movement from the others. "You ready to go?" I ask.

"Yeah, lets get the fuck out of here." she says, moving quickly to grab the keys on the bar. "Now nobody is going to say a word right?" she says looking at the shaking souls trying to keep from being noticed.

"No, they wont talk, I'll make sure of that. Go start the car," I say as she turns and begins to walk out of the bar through the back. There is silence until a man under a table in the corner shakes his leg violently causing his drink to spill above his head, letting the glass smash into pieces on the ground.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts through his tears," Please don't hurt me, please, I have a family. Oh God please…"
"Ah, don't stress it man, glasses break all the time in bars, besides I need to ask you a question. Is that your wife next to you?" I ask pointing at a brunette in a black dress curled up in the fetal position behind him.

"No….she….she's my girlfriend," he says beginning to sob, "My wife is at home...with the kids."

"Well that’s too bad." I said to him, "she would probably enjoy this if she knew you were out whoring with other women on
Christmas Eve." With that said I place the gun up to his eyes, which close tightly before I pull the trigger and take away his life. The woman shakes behind him and lets out a small squeak. I can tell she is crying softly. "Anyone in here actually with their wives tonight? How about with a girlfriend? Is there anyone here who wants to claim that they are an honest and good person?" I say loudly. There are no words spoken. Three men were left in the bar with their whores. With three shots their lives are over and I walked outside.

The Porsche is running. Alicia is in the passenger seat. I step in and snap my seatbelt. "Some people just don't get it. They live their whole lives without getting it."

"At least there are less of them now." she says as she adjusts the chair so it sits just right. "Besides, we're just doing what needs to be done. Those guys had no idea what was going on. I'm glad you took care of em. You did take care of all of em right?"

"Yeah, except for the women, they have room to breath. It aint their fault.”

Side to Side and Out the Top

Part I: On Carving West

As the train rolls through impoverished neighborhoods built on factory skeletons,
a young man taller than his three friends, lines up and hurls his mighty ice creation
towards cars gliding by arm in arm.

A dull thud sounds beside my window.
Seconds ago, if glass ceased to exist I'd have been hit.
I then would insist, as I should have still,
that we grind to a halt to begin a childhood war
with the only casualties being ears gone rose red.

They were thoughts freed by sunset,
or dreams which have yet to be dreamt.

Gladly, I know no difference between the two.

Part II: Angled East

Seasons passed too fast. So quick, in fact, that one
hadn't moved before it's follower came through.

Crunchy still cold snow, leftover, now covered
in a wave of glass, a shimmering blanket
dotted with trees and power line poles
which are trees we shaved who stand again
rootless, naked under the falling sun.

The glass grows endless strings of orange and purple
and their sister colors go running, sprinting
from horizon to eye all finishing first.

Part III: Rising Beside

A day with my kin, as free as life imagined.
“The setting sun is costing me tears. I'm paying in full.”

“Our mistakes gave us these colors. This show is made by our history.”

Together we admire our prism shaped scar
which we cut into every sky
so it shows before every night.

As with all found in moments growing closer to death,
it is too simple to be bad, good or anything at all.

Part IV: Exit Through The Excuse Of Time

On a city street take a breath as no one
will mind anything but passing time.

All will be solved before
the ticking of the last clock stops.

When I Don't Try - Words Hung by a Mind on Five Glasses of Wine

If I switch to whiskey before the wine is done my worry has overcome. If I die within a moment then gone is the heaven which I seek. None but I, the designation shared by all who speak in proclamations, can change all that has ever been. So goes the truth of bliss and sadness and there mere chapter-like physiques born from slicing through moments with the sharp blade of perception, becoming from lack of thought, born to die and live again in the minds of other I's.

Write it down so you don't forget. A broken camera leaves images for only those there to view and I, shattered lense and all, welcome the truth of all which has been, and will be, forgotten. Nothing ever happened if it wasn't recorded. If only I could prove that simple idea of nothing then there goes worry and the sustenance providing shadow which extends from it's leafy bow.

My face, burned from a sun which set hours ago, caressed by smoke, poisoned by that which sees it in its every-moment style of existing, full of wrinkles and time and memories of smiles worn in through deep thought out seconds of sitting alone during sun rises, weeps with joy at the standing nature of all who fondle its curves. So smoke and I go dancing wildly through my night which never ended and birthed light to form flowers forgotten by those without pens, those with a shattered lens.

If I could forget than it wouldn't be a problem. If forgetfulness had anywhere near the strength that the compartmentalizing human mind has then off goes the bad and good, though simply both designations, of a spirit lost in yearning.

Fire. Once touted as the creation of a lifetime, the savior of a people whose blood could not switch when the winds did, is now that which ignites all bad habits and meager nothings said to kill and maim but horror-filled they claim, more than any other treasure, static smiles in moments unlived. It's fear that ignites fire. Fear of death. Fear of life. And the sun rises.

Now another day and children play but the bricks falling from yesterdays buildings provide more fear than hope. Now history stands waiting to crumble. Forgotten and whistfully existing in what has been, that idea now living as an exhaled breath. Tomorrow. Oh, tomorrow. Today was spent thinking. So today never came and tomorrow couldn't possibly begin until those words have become an ever evolving, always simple, completely uninspiring answer to the lesson driven questions which will never be asked. Why now? It's always been now. Never has it not been anything but the truth that has always been known, always forgotten and never heard, but momentarily acknowledged, like the wild rhythmic stomping of bison on parched mid-western earth.

Hidden in groups surpassing the rigid structure of numbers is your answer. In the middles of centralized issues are the candy coated, soft with must-be-earned silkiness tender qualities of peace. They are the ones that we met and forgot and wept away while thinking of that other day.

The sky here, blue when hung without clouds on this day, is often shaded the color of black fighting white. When watering the earth, it brings us pain. While providing the new hues of blue which will live forever undefined, it gives us nameless bliss.

One choice. One truth. One episode and I have forgotten. None which calls us is ever given the power of those we call. When the night is warm or the day brings dry chills, when the soft sun creeps, or the moon makes wolves sing, what do you seek? I beg that the answer, that which resides within all questions, is actually I, and you, and any who have said something and called it truth.

Jamison On A Windy Day - An Ode to Tommy

"Life's a bitch and then you die. That's why we get high. Cause you never know when you're going to go."

It's one of those statements said in passing,
A gust of breeze between my leaves and your leaves,
mouth and ears,
and we walk, steps continue with the same old feet
and on we go.
Regardless of sayings, life goes on.
In the wake of death. Life goes on.

Fear and pain and the lot of madness that has encompassed existence for many a century,
and happiness too, though in small doeses that have a set time of action, like sleeping pills with a window of minutes where they take effect, love gives you a chance, we all get one, or two if we're lucky, three if we've the child of a saint,
but for centuries there's been worry and wonder, pain and suffering.
All cure's are temporary and we mock the future,
knowing, but not aware, that it will all continue to get better and worse.
For the rest of the lives of our children's children.

We're here now.

All of us walking and wishing and settling in.
Dreams are half lived and life is waited on, hand and foot, by the moments that we create.
Still. Half a dream. At most. Is all that most try for.

On the trains there are strangers who haven't said hello.
I wonder if I'm the only one yearning to yelp with glee or pain or acknowledgement of something, something, something.
And we all rock, arms tightly toward our bodies, no touching of neighbors, through the same twists and turns of the same steel track, forged and smoothed by machines and heat.
All the same, yet no one notices.

Sometimes there's a shock. A jolt of wisdom and you choose to let it pass.
Keep it and it may turn to pain, as all knowledge does when not watered and gifted to another before going stale.
But keep it. Chance it. Hold it till the breath fills the body with poison and the last moments of consciousness sit idly by, wondering if you'll let them do their job. Then, like the fine mist rising from a swamp warmed with summer stagnant heat, let it exit through the pores. Give it back. It was given to you. He gave it to me.

-------------

There's only a few reasons to drink whiskey in mid day when hours away from the night shift at a rehab. Today, I drink for you, my friend who left me too soon but taught me before his last day. And the whiskey won't run dry, nor will the hope that you've instilled in this sometimes fearful heart. To lose a brother is to loose a piece, substantial and necessary, of the soul.

A man who never questioned my friendship died a year ago today. A man who taught me about commitment, about faith, about the timeless bonds of brothers in arms, of old fashioned thugs and new aged knowers, a man who fought battles and drew the blood of another for me has left this place. He knew what I couldn't do but never mentioned it. He swept those floors when I said my back hurt and I'll never forget that.

Tom. I know you're there, watching and listening, smoking the best grass and patting each one of us on the back when it gets too tough.

I know you're there when the wind lifts the brim of my hat. I know you sat on that smaller rock next to me when the sun rose over the darkest and bluest ocean I've ever seen yesterday morning. I know I can always take from your strength and feed it to my feet when the walking just wont stop.

And I know so much. So little, but so much. Love, the bonds of friends, the strength of one, the purpose of living the dream despite disbelief, the beauty of taking it in and letting it rest, only to give it to the next generation for their hope, their happiness, their strength. I know the strength and truth of a friend and a brother.

The days get too dark sometimes. But I'll never let go. You'll push me back when I'm falling towards the pit. Good show man. You never stopped doing it right. There's no sense in feigning weakness when we all have the strength to save ourselves and the rest of the people on the block. And if we cry, we'll have our brothers. When we feel the fear, we'll help one another. When we can't keep going, we'll refuse to think about giving up. We've got all we need in the friends we have. Seen or unseen. And you are rocking the clouds and probably not even looking down.

If you do. Take a minute and know that it all stopped and started over again the day I got that call. One year ago today, I met a pain I knew existed but had never touched. Here we are. One year later. You're in the sky. I can see you smiling. We'll take care of things down here. Don't you worry.

I love you buddy. I walk this world with hope. And you are always walking with me, laughing at the strangeness of this maddening world, making me smoke blunts instead of bowls, getting me too high. Thank you for living your life. You've change mine and those of many others. We'll never forget you.

Another Proclamation To The Unknown

I'd like to start this off with a Bulgarian Proverb that was told to me by a Swedish midget in Germany. But I have no such proverb, nor do I have the corresponding story of how and when it was first heard. So I'll start with the present madness and the imposing presence of an adorable dog that is continuously wandering in circles around my cross legged feet.

I've got another morning pot of coffee steadily making its way into my body via the hand to mouth technique, soaking into my veins and creating a calm that can't decide whether it's booze or bean juice affecting my mind. It could be whiskey or wine. It's just one of those times when mornings are so clouded with the exhaustion from endless work that I have to consume something for balance. Today it's coffee and my fingers fly while my body takes in the sensation of now, and the dog, which is one of the more important aspects of now. I'll explain why.

There is a dog here, a well trained guide dog. No, I'm not blind yet. We get to borrow dogs which means borrowed tails for borrowed wagging. I enjoy waking to a shaking tail. I wish I had one too sometimes.

But that's not the point and my mind is slightly stuttering. This isn't supposed to be anything but a free rant, and that is what it's becoming. My smile and my solid seated form watch as the fingers from my hands take out what my mind says needs to go free.

And the music dictates these words as much as the surroundings at present and beyond that, this is merely an attempt at the creation of a window from the mind to the page. The hands do stunt the constant flow, but control and the methodical decisions of a conductor controlling the symphony of a living feeling can assist in the dictation of now.

Once again, I am lost in the infinite freedom of love and madness, living with a brutish style of passion, taking the path that I know I have found and must be followed, living a life that I have developed from many hours of smiles and frowns, and pretend dramatic sob stories and roof top celebrations with no one but the moon to watch. This is the epic story of now and it is found everywhere at every time. There's nothing stopping each moment from being that one we've waited for. Looking and waiting can only do so much. Pull it towards you, whatever you want, whatever you need, and breath easy with the truth that it all works out as it should. No reasons to worry. We are the masters of the individual destiny. While we live freely, the world is watching and responding. It's not just us, not just the outside or inside, it's the combination, the conduction of energy between two points. It's the relationship of one to all and back again. Intense, right?

I've clearly lost my mind in so many ways and I'm happy with that. The lost mind is a societal classification anyway, and I never bothered much with the titles of the masses. I'm a self designated smiler and thinker and lover and writer. The world can do what it does, and I'll be me just how I need to be. So yes, I've lost my mind, but I've found myself, and I'm happy to say this smile doesn't fade.

It's a calm confidence that spreads after the caffeine wears out, when the work never seems to stop and there's never enough time to have a thought. There's something happening beyond it all, beyond choice, beyond destiny, beyond words. We feel it for a reason, whatever it is, and some of us will follow that for forever and more, while some wait behind. Some people have decided to avoid losing their minds.

And with no real point to bookend any of these random thoughts I'll just finish this with a description of the unique grasses and trees of a continent separated from the rest of the world for millions of years. The grass is long and thick, more rugged than any I've seen. It holds on to soil dried by years of drought and stays strong with the hope of enough water coming soon. The trees have many colors and some are palm trees and parrots and all types of squeaking, squawking birds live within the branches. The birds are made up of yellow and red and blue and some of them talk, some of them even laugh. It's a weird island world with laughing birds. This giant hunk of dry land hasn't held hands with another continent for so long, and look what happened, look at what it became. This place is warm and hot during the day and night. It has dense tropical rain forests and barren deserts. It's a place of extremes, but it found a balance with it's constant imbalance. And I found a balance here, and it's time to go. Now, after my second winter of this year, I ready myself for another journey to another hemisphere where another winter is waiting. But there's more. There's so much more than winter waiting.

So here I come New York, but don't get used to my feet on your streets, because I'll only be there for a little while before traveling on with the help of a giant metal bird that supposedly flies with jets but there must be some magic involved in the process. Then Spain. Then this. Then a smile fulfilled. And my smiles never leave, no matter how hard the nights or how strange the trees. Soon, this deep breath can get released. I must be somewhere around chapter four in the great book of becoming at this point. This chapter is about the combination of peace and passion, work and love, hope and reality. This one's about people on a little blue dot in a big old universe. This one is about responding to it all. I'm going to do what I feel I must, follow what I need to follow, and I'll tell you how it all turns out.

My Letter To The World

My childhood was not easy. Many have had tougher but I had an interesting run of life before I knew anything about what that meant. For too long it felt unfair, like I was robbed and something was taken. Tonight I see clearly through eyes that have recently cried the most soulful of loving tears, why all of it happened and why I am here.

At the beginning of this summer I moved across the world for winter, away from love, towards an uncertain dream, hoping the fog would settle and a path would appear. In recent days and recent nights, all which never ask much of sleep, I have begun touching on things inside that I've seen before but only as they flee away with fear as though I'm saying to myself, I'm not ready. Now I am and it's shown through looks on the train shared between children and I, moments when the dying sit beside me and I refuse to look away for long. As the dying woman coughs I sit yearning for water and a glass to forgive her parched present pain, if only for a second. If loving one gets love in return, loving the world brings one straight past the certainty of death to the highest heaven. This is where I am and this is why I write to you.

So many nights I have been working, finding time throughout to scribble notes and type letters, while maintaining one of the hardest positions in the world by being one of societies replacement parents. During my time in and out of work I am constantly wondering whether I should live it, feel it, write it down, or just speak the story. It all happens with good intentions and blissful realizations. There's enough time in every day for all that we need. When words bubble up, out they go. When writing at a hundred words a minute is far too slow to transcribe the thoughts of my mind, I say it freely to a friend, learning from life as my feelings speak without hesitation. When writing a letter I am holding one's hand, taking them through where I've been and showing them how to land pleasantly in moments of contentment during any situation.

As with all of life, my words mean less when not directed at another, for saying these things to you makes them better than just saying them for the sake of saying them. There is a story I'd like to tell and, since I can't mail out a hundred letters of thanks to a hundred souls tonight, I'll write these words here, hoping that those I love grab my hand and wander through this moment with me.

Tonight I am working at a house, a contingency unit, where I've been working for the past few weeks. In that time children have come and gone, and those who have stayed have been waiting, or so I feel, to see what I was made of, to see if I could be trusted. This week has been tough. Sweeping up broken glass is something I got used to. Getting eye level and raising my voice to the stern growl of a lion has been the only choice. It's routine. A glass of milk gets dumped on the floor. The cup gets smashed. And so it goes, or has gone, but tonight I have no glass to sweep up. This house is one of a few where the unmentionables go. No home, no need to worry, no support from life, and no fear of death, this is their world. Ten years ago, even less, it was mine too.

When I arrived there was the little one waiting to see who was knocking. He hugs me, relaying his youth as he smiles like a child I worked with a world away. On rollerblades he skims through the house hopping steps and asking for cookies from one staff, then the other. We let him go, let the energy go out freely and before he went to sleep he and I watched cartoons and laughed together. He said something to me in French when I asked him to go to bed. As we hiked the creaking stairs of an old house turned make-shift home, he asked me if I knew any other languages. I said no, and asked where he learned French. School, he says as he speaks greetings in farewells in German and Italian as well.

I bring an extra blanket and he lies down in bed before I throw it over him with a one two three count that came with a smile and let him giggle a little before I turned out the lights. As I closed the door I whisper buenas noches and before the latch shuts he asks what I said. Goodnight in Spanish, I reply. Where'd you learn that he said? School, I said with a smile as the door fell flush with it's frame and I softly released the handle back to it's place, letting the silence of sweet childhood nights send him to sleep peacefully.

After that came the older one who smoked the cigarette behind his ear while talking on his phone for a few minutes before coming inside and heading straight to bed. He saw me, as he has all week, and for a second in his world of trouble I feel the truth of just being there, over and over again.

Later on, at the point when their absence lasted almost long enough to report their unknown whereabouts to the proper authorities, the other two came home. With the same noise and intention for disruption they usually have, they swore and talked of the abuses they faced during each of their four arrests today. I listened and my part time partner parent, the other staff, a man of almost sixty who exudes the love of a great father and has stories of playing the bongos with all the Aussie jazz greats, heads off to another house where things have gone sour. He checks in first. You ok? We'll be fine, I say, head on and take your time and good luck.

Then there in front of me my eyes began to see more than before as I noticed the two teenagers sitting there talking to me about what sucked that day and why it wasn't fair. Throughout their conversations of being busted and dealing with the consequences I heard many subtleties that deserved more focus. One said that he was thrown down by the cops, that it wasn't fair and that he hadn't done anything deserving of such a reaction. He then said how his buddy beside him pushed the cop because he messed with his friend. I stopped the conversation and began my explanation and interpretation of what I had just heard and what it meant.

So you stood up for your buddy in by pushing a cop, I ask.

Yeah, he says, it was bullshit and he didn't deserve it.

Don't mess with the guys in uniform, I reply, you'll get jail time for that and then it's over, but I gotta say that sticking up for your boy like that is a beautiful thing. You're lucky to have that.

Yeah, he said. Yeah, said his friend.

The conversation continues and I care not whether these guys go to bed ever. I'm stimulated. They are too. I tell them about my childhood and they listen. I explain why it makes sense to do it another way, and how life can give you anything and everything you need. I say it's always good to be there for your boys. One of them says to the other, I like the way this guy talks. And we talk on till two am and beyond.

There were so many moments of realization for me. I told them my story, said it wasn't much different than theirs, and told them I was proud to have made the choices I did and proud of what I had achieved. They listened and liked what they heard as yawns began to crawl over their young and often fearful faces which relaxed into those of children once again. We talked about jobs, about having money to do what you want, about women and children and how they deserved the utmost of respect. Then they told me about those who look out for them, the woman at the train station nearby who never makes them pay and tosses each one a smoke as they go past, the man in the park near Flinder Street who, during a brake from busstling to sleeping streets with his guitar, shares some of his grass with them.

I say, it's ok. You guys are fifteen. This is what's supposed to happen.

The phone rang and I answered to find my coworker's low raspy comforting voice on the other line calling to make sure I was alright. Are they in bed, he asks. No, I say, but we're having a great talk so take your time because we'll be fine.

And back into the room I go, sitting in the same sofa seat where these two teenagers waited to continue hearing me speak. They listened the way my friends do and I listened the way their friends do. At the end of it, when exhaustion reminded them of their youth and the comfort of warm blankets they went to sleep saying thank you in a way most people never hear. I walked one to his room and spread out his blanket, thanking him back. And off went the light as the last child fell silent. I walked slowly down the hallway trying not to make sounds with my steps, feeling love like I'd never known as tears came quickly without me even asking.

In the office the TV showed informercials for hair care products so I turned on the computer to find that a signal couldn't be reached and the internet world was unavailable. This, so often is a blessing, because there are times of beauty that require experienceing a feeling alone. So I changed the channel and found a fuzzy station with an old black and white movie complete with standard characters; a beautiful woman, a handsome businessman in love with her, another man who loved her first fighting for her back and violins singing the distance between scenes. I turned off the office light and sat with my feet on the couch eating a few cookies with creme centers as a reward for a life well lived.

The story unfolded on the screen but I didn't pay much attention to any of it other than the last scene where the other man, her first love, wins and they set sail out of the Hudson Bay and head off towards Paris, or London, or Rome. It didn't matter where they were going. In that last scene was that old black and white finish. With top hat and trench coat the man grabs his dark haired, full lipped, and porcelain skinned lover and kissed her ferousciously as the crescendo rose and they swayed while credits came rolling by.

So softly I stepped, as the credits rolled on, out to the moonlight of this never ending, always changing night where I smoked and smiled waiting for my co-worker to arrive back again but that didn't happen for another hour, most of which was spent lying back on a couch that's more comfortable than my bed, with my legs kicked on the arm of it, and my hands behind my head, staring contently at the ceiling glowing with the flicker of a silent movie that I didn't watch but lived instead.

With my eyes shut I almost slept but my mind wandered to so many thoughts. I work at night and sleep in the days, but recently I am lucky to get a three hour nap, but maybe it's not luck Maybe it's time to stay awake. I wanted to write but sat instead in the feeling of knowing I had changed a life, knowing that I was fifteen once and heard some similar words from a man working in a rehab in west Jersey who stayed on late to teach me some things on his guitar and talk to me about the way things really are. I no longer remember that guys name but I'll never forget his stories, or the fact that he always looked high, and always seemed more burnt out than I had ever felt, and most importantly, I'll never forget the nights when it was he and I in the staff office where I wasn't allowed to go, sitting and telling stories as he showed me chords but got too excited to play songs so I never learned guitar but instead learned of love and friendship and the truth that it is always there.

And now I sit seeing the time as six, knowing there's an hour to go of my last shift before a day off and plans for poetry reading and moments of freeing my words in front of others in moments on stage I now know I deserve. But this story hasn't ended and this letter must go on, but next comes the mopping of floors and the scribbling of notes and a walk to the train and a long ride home. Then, in the hours to come, when I reach my house still sleeping with my friends inside, I'll walk quietly in and finish this letter of eternal gratitude and love, this letter that says to all above, below and beside thank you, for I have found my purpose in life.

A Rant. (And I'll need a chorus)

And I ready the supplies which rest by my side for there are things to say and all fuel necessary for words sits readily available for use. Last nights whiskey tells me of my walk through the night with company in the form of wind and waves of air that shake trees. Some are lemon trees. But I think of moments before the whiskey when the world, and I wasn't expecting it, leaned over and kissed me.

Walking through a moment like this yesterday brought me into a world that shed it's tears through my very own eyes only moments before I arrived. Yes, until we are in it we are waiting and I stepped heavily into it, unsure and cautious, wrapped lovingly in music that was there to help the avoidance. But the world was waiting and impatiently knocking so lovingly on my face with the soft hands of a baker whose spent a hundred years kneading dough. "Wake up." It said. "There are things to see."

And I smoked, which I do, and stood in the sun, wrapped in accessories and heavily laden with a backpack stuffed with things I think I need. A man approached, walking slowly and surely and made a motion. I hand him a smoke and he waits. So I remove the tunes and listen as he speaks.

"Can I have a lighter?"
"Sure," I say as I reach into my pocket and remove a red bic.
"Thanks." and he lights his smoke, still staring at me. "It's been cold out. Do you think it will get warmer?"
"I hope so," I say. "But we'll see."

He nods his head and thanks me again while turning to walk away around the side of a brick wall that seperates the sides of the train tracks. I continue waiting and notice him come back around the wall, on the other side, looking suspiciously at me. He didn't want me to watch. His fingers went into the pay phone coin return, then the return for the ticket machine, checking for something. His pants were worn with nights outside and his jacket was needed for dark breezes. As he found no coins, he turned once more, saw my eyes watching his, and he looked down. Then he hurriedly walked away. It has surely been some time since he has seen his family, maybe it's been a while since he's eaten. But he didn't ask for food. And he didn't ask for home. He wanted to know if it will get warmer. I should've said yes, it will, with a direct assertion made by the hopeful for the sake of the hopeless.

As I stood there, lost in my previous tears and wonders and fears, anxious and unsure, a man approached me with the cool confidence of nothing left and asked me a question. The world came knocking with his foot steps. And I almost didn't answer. But the train arrived and the day continued.

My heart, rapidly beating to the point of leaping cleanly from my chest without a spot of blood, sat with me as I placed my bag on my lap and huddled into a four seat compartment with two young men who laughed and looked mockingly at me. I listen to the music and fear. So much fear. And I didn't know why.

From in front comes the poking up face of a child. Her hands grab the back of the seat and those are the first things I see. Then came the little blonde bob on the top of her head. Then came her eyes, round and young and excited to be hiding. I smiled and she drops quickly. The game is on. No need for nerves twitching and wondering about the madness of the big picture. In that moment the only thing that mattered was the intense game of hide and go seek that this child and I were wrapped up in. Her mother noticed. I share my smile with her too. And smiles are shared until they get off the train, with tickets in hand, for an event of some kind that I didn't know was happening. She won, of course. And maybe it was because I couldn't hide as well as her. But she won the game. I'm just glad I had a chance to play.

Then the city. The city always comes before I take the second trip. I commute to the city, to commute back out, then I walk to work, always at night except for this moment. This was my commute during the day. And I dreamed of playing a fiddle.

The buildings shine in reflection of the big bright blonde sun. Friends and lovers smile. Chips are sold with globs of sauce and small plastic forks to avoid the dirtying of fingers. Twenty minutes to wait and I just sit and wonder, not really thinking, but wondering by sitting.

Then the next train and a couple beside me in dark suit and dress. Her face covered gently with a short black screen, hanging lightly from her hat, and he looks at me when I notice this. In my own world there is pain and wonder. Not like theirs, though. At this moment I could not compare. And I sat hoping I didn't offend with my stare, two beautiful people on there way to the celebration of a life, and the acknowledgement of a death. The man looked at me and said something. I looked down, ashamed at myself for staring for the sake of stories, and not realizing till I looked that their story was harder than mine and that maybe, just maybe, it should be left to them to live before taken to words and told to others.

They depart from the train by the side of the large graveyard whose length I walk in its entirety every night that I work on this side of town. They walk tall, with surefooted steps. The man looks back. Our eyes connect. I wonder for a minute whether he was the killer before looking for another story sitting next to me.

And I guess I don't remember. But maybe I chose to forget. But something else happened. Another story was found. But, like the couple wrapped in black, I let it rest in it's spot, knowing I could find it another day and tell it in full, but it just wasn't the time.

So with confident steps I lurch my body, heavily laden with manipulated sorrow and wonders of what if, towards my first ever day shift. I arrive. I sit. I talk. I listen. I go. Another day over.

But when I walk home the night has returned and so have the quick footsteps of people who don't trust a bearded man in flannel walking behind them. They cross the street, a whole group of women in evenly set short skirts which need to be pulled down constantly to avoid them sharing their special places before they wish. What would I do? Why act so fearful? If these streets scare you, then put on some clothes, drop the drink a minute before you reach your stumbling drunken peak, and walk home with confidence. But no, they drank to much and barely maintain the perched presence of each high heeled step, as they run across ten busy lanes, to the safer side of the street. And I wonder what they see. If in the day, a child and I play subway games, and at night my presence alone causes great freight, then what of a world which holds it all?

Well it was late and I ran to the train. No point in waiting so I ran the length of the dark graveyard full of stories and grass fed by tears, towards a train station where one other man was waiting, smoking and leaning on his car which had boxing gloves hanging from the rearview mirror. He looked at me as he smoked, confident that his battle would be won. His arms barely stayed inside the sleeves of his dark colored t-shirt. I try not to make eye contact. He stares anyway. I ran all the way, and I think I made it on time but its the last train. If I missed it, than I have to walk south to the city and east to my house, fifty kilometers of night. And I don't want that.

The train slides in, gushing cool winter wind, threatens the resting of my hat upon my head, and opens its doors. Three cars on this train. Inside are five men. All of us, with me now making six, look suspiciously at each other waiting for a fight. What was earlier a place for games with sweet smiling children is now a potential battle ground. We wait for each others moves. He stands, I ready myself. The guys behind me act up, I jump for the front. We wait. We all sit and wait.

Te train arrives earlier than expected and we exit together walking separate ways towards stairs leading up and down, into a world where we no longer have the company of our combined momentary fear, our temporary readiness for anything. At the top of the stairs people run and laugh and hold hands as they head for the moments that lie in wait. There is a main entrance full of ticking clocks and people on phones calling the others they were supposed to meet. A man is kneeling in front of the steps with a camera pointing up. He holds steady his discomfort, taking a picture that I see before it gets immortalized. Three men walk by in white Saturday night shirts which aren't tucked in. One dances in front of the camera in strange and rhythmless steps. The camera man smiles and waits patiently. The man walks onward, content with his awkward behavior. Perhaps he was deserving of the high five given so gladly by his fellow mate. But I couldn't help but think that this man would never play as good a game of hide and seek as I, especially on a day time train, with recognition of a world in pain.

Then a bottle of whiskey from an overpriced pub near Federation Square. And back to the platform to wait for the next train. I smoke next to signs with circles and crosses drawn over burning cigarettes. Heavy fines apply. And I swig the brown of expensive American whiskey purchases in the middle of this Australian town. A train conductor walks by and smiles as I exhale my toxic breath. He holds up his smoke and takes a drag. Let's break the rules together. And I smile while saying thanks for that moment.

Another eruption of metal on metal between man made stone walls. I look up at the sign blinking above and board, taking a seat across from a man in a clean jacket, with a clean shaven face, eating gummy bears one piece at a time. I notice his patience as he rips apart each candy, chewing slowly on each head and set of gummy bear feet. He wraps up the bag and places it under the side of his tightly crossed legs and looks over at me, a strange bearded man in flannel drinking whiskey.

I wonder if the train will crash. Sometimes I hope for strange things. Maybe an adventure will just barge into my existence, maybe a new story will simply explode in front of me. An old man watches me drink. He smiles and nods. Maybe a former drunkard, acknowledging what once was. Maybe he hopes I too will leave the bottle behind one day. His smile leads to a yawn, and back goes his head to rest against the yellow plastic seat.

The train reaches home and I step out, walking quickly, thinking of people, and places they'd be. I hop on the tracks as the last car flashes by. The jump is so high that I stumble and nearly fall, but with my feet back on the rocks between the wooden ties, I feel comfortable like a man who is a child again, if only for a moment, and all of the whiskey and all of the wonder makes me want to get home early and see what tomorrow brings. But first I walk to the casino and have a few pints. I empty my pockets of money and hit buttons to watch it go. I place my empty glass beside the door with a sign that now says closed and walk home alone.

My steps fall slowly and I can't drink enough to stumble. I raise the bottle, threatening a smash to the sky, and place it back in my pocket. There's something to be said for growing up. Something happens when we walk alone, waiting and wondering, but always alone and most often at night. And this is what I do. I walk alone. I walk at night. And instead of breaking my empty whiskey bottles after nights at the casino where I am playing the games but wishing for a conversation and losing twice at once, I climb a tree for the sake of climbing.

Then it's 3am and I think of all whom I have ever loved and what it all means. I think of moments passed and desires for day. The wind knocks against each window on this house with the help of branches, of course. I go outside and smoke each time, but I no longer want it. If a cigarette was a friend, I'd never be alone. But while I'm here, while walking and nights alone with whiskey makes up my life, I think I'll smoke and see if I can get by. So I rest when I can, knowing that hope is something saved and needed, that I must be ready for train games with children and moments of potential madness with men, that I must not smoke too much to make me grow old, so I can always climb a tree when I drink alone.