Oh Kee Pa

Kellan puts in first hook.

The first hook.

Jen pierces the other side.

Smiles all around in anticipation.

Hooking up the ropes to my chest.

Getting ready. Scared face.

Feeling it out on my own.

First time tension is added; I am lifted from sitting position into a standing position.

Pulling while standing.

Going into the air.

In the air. Relaxed.

Here is your god, crucified upon a tree.

Down again and feeling it.

Kellan cuts the ropes like Rambo.

The sun has gone down. The hooks are out.

This was done with 2 eight gauge hooks in my upper chest. We set up the ropes and pulleys from a tree in the woods. After about ten minutes of pulling the rope and stretching my flesh, getting a feel for it from a sitting position, I gave the rope to Kellan, who lifted me into a standing position. I did some more flesh pulls, and then nodded to Kellan as the sun was about to go down. I went up for about twenty seconds, and had to come down because of how incredibly painful it was. I have never experienced any sensation like this ever in my life, I cannot describe the pain and the rapture felt afterwards when I came down. After doing that, I more fully understand the the potential of this human vessel, and my own infinite potential. The most self-empowering thing I have ever done.

Watermellon Seed of Dissent

Mmhm, sho’ nuff I’s grow’n

grow’n like uh cake-seed in Jew-Lah

Sho’ nuff, sho’ nuff, I spits a watuhmel’n in yo

gotdan ah

Think yuz lahk me?

Think yuh kin see?

I dun shots a watuhmel’n in yo

muthafuck’n ah.

Nothin But Updates

I’m not writing creatively right now for a few reasons.  I still feel absolutely saturated from the program, and frankly, being back in Philly fills me with a sense of apathy towards my own work, all I can do is visualize.  I want so badly to write a poem or something, but I just… don’t care right now.

I have a few ideas.  Allow me to list.

-Danny Haze and I discussed a graphic novel.  I haven’t told her yet, but Kath will be doing color, Danny will be inking it, I’ll be writing the story.  I may enlist someone to help with layout.  If you are familiar with comic book layout and design, get at me, sucka.  I am interested in making this book either about Philadelphia, or making the Slaughter novella into an expanded graphic novel.

-Compiling all the notes, research, poetry and exposition about Gary Heidnik and write a book called “The Bodhisatva of North Philadelphia.”  The book reconciles my attraction to serial killers and my glorification of Gary Heidnik, killer from my home town, with who he actually was as a person, based on interviews, court transcripts, police and hospital reports.  I’ve developed this character who is a reflection of my own fears of who I don’t want to become as a symptom of Philadelphia, but the character I’ve created is a zeitgeist caricature of a real man who abducted, killed, and ate women.  I am not this serial killer, nor do we actually have much in common, but I’ve somehow channeled him at points, and have gained a sick empathy for him.  I’d like to figure this phenomena out.

-Compiling my Asemic poetry and publishing a chapbook.  You know the ones:  part of the “Permuted Love Poem” published two weeks ago on this site was written in my asemic style.  For those of you who’ve seen them, “Ode to Blackheart” and “(Mis)carried Away” are both written in my asemic form.  I don’t think I have very many of these, but hey, it isn’t so hard.  They take about four times as long to write, as it’s basically all stylistically created based on personal aesthetics.  I’ll be working a lot on moving away from meaning in language, and more towards deconstruction.  Words are metaphors for reality, and once you realize that the metaphors themselves don’t even exist, your whole world may start to crumble.

-Compiling all poetry with structure and form based in numerics or math (mostly villanelle, terza rima, and tercet), publishing a chapbook called “Law of Threes.”  I’ve been thinking of something like this for about three years (since my third semester in college), but instead of three sets of three poems making nine, I might end up doing 27 poems, separated into three parts, each subdivided into three parts.  I need a thematic basis to justify these stylized pretensions.

-FINISHING THAT MOTHERFUCKING EXEGETICAL NARRATIVE (compiling into a complete book: “The Room”, “The Synesthesiac”, “Bastard Suction Experiment”, as well as endless notes written during drug-induced psychosis.  Whee!)

-My fucking application to Naropa.

You bastards, all of you.  Do you know I have almost 7000 hits on my page?  That means I get about 500 hits a month.  Is it your inexplicable attraction to me, my words, or do you just like the abuse?

A lot of people have commented on the grotesque nature of most of my poetry, and the darkness.  Here is how I respond to that, after years of these critiques:

I am an artist.  I create representations of emotions and feelings by synthesizing situations which cause you to empathize or emulate said feelings.  Organizing symbols.  This is what all artists do.  They create visceral connections between you and the artist, the world, your community, yourself.  They cause you to think, cause you to feel.  Everyone loves happy pop art these days.  Everyone loves bright, shiny, happy.  Everyone loves sex and consumption.

Well, I love digging around in open wounds, and then rubbing dirt and grime and lemon juice in them.  I like to cause you to see that your body is made up of these wounds, and life tends to get inside those wounds, no matter what sort of glass house you live in. Everyone can see you suffering, you fucking queer.  You fucking bitch.  You disgusting, poor, piece of shit.  You monster.  “You disgusting, greedy, no-good Amerikan death-sucker” (WSB).  Understand that you suffer, and that you aren’t alone.  You are part of a vast community who laugh and share and steal and hurt and cry.  You do these things.  My writing is these things.  If you read what I write and it makes you shift in your seat, it makes your skin crawl, it makes you want to read it some other time, or never, then I’ve done my bit: I’ve caused you to feel something.  We avoid being uncomfortable at any cost- well, be uncomfortable!  Examine it!  Why the fuck should you feel uncomfortable with something you’ve felt, you’ve seen, you’ve experienced?  Examine it, and transcend it.  You’re human.  Fucking act like it.

Language is a disease.  It tells you that there are bad things and good things.  I’m here to tell you that you are a thing, and everything else is a thing, and that’s all there is to it.  There is no good or bad. Just things telling you that other things said this about that.  Language makes this happen.  Language makes you uncomfortable because there are words describing comfort and its inverse.  If we just felt these things, noted them and experienced them, they wouldn’t be half as bad as you construct them to be.  Stop defining everything.  Just start experiencing.

Fupdate

I guess I just want to bitch about the shit I have to do;

Mitch is coming by in like a half hour to pick up this stencil I stayed up till one last night doing, and not to my satisfaction.

I need to finish said stencil.

I need to figure out what pieces I am going to read tonight at the Week 4 Student Reading;

I need to find an Italian sonnet to translate into West Philadelphia vernacular.

I need to translate an Italian sonnet into West Philadelphia vernacular so I can read it tonight at the Week 4 Student Reading.

I need to get absolutely wasted tonight after the student reading.

I need to get a three inch long, 1/4 inch thick nail to shove in my nose so I can make money panhandling on Pearl Street.

I need to spend money panhandling on booze to get wasted tonight after the reading.

I tell you now, just so you know, this could be a poem, and I may read this list tonight if I am unsatisfied with everything else. Poetry for poets, this is. Most artists can relate here: necessity, deadlines, desire, performance, creation, booze.

Am I joking? Am I half-joking? Is the joke that this is really not a joke? Being here is a joke, a most serious joke. Everything here is a joke or a poem. I guess that’s life; it’s all just a joke or a poem.

You will tremble with previously unexperienced, ambiguous emotions at my general majesty.

My Marriage

It takes more pills than I can afford

more words than I know

more books than I have time to read

more rituals and symbols that I’d have to memorize

more women than I’d like to know

to keep me from Gary Heidnik’s old house

he lived at 3520 Marshall Street in North Philadelphia

It isn’t your right to see

you’d have to find it and probably break in

but if i were to ever stop using,

reading, writing,

programming and trying to keep away from sex

I’d live there and fill the basement with water

paste money to the walls

and try to form a family

a little bastard army

who look like me

who hate and steal

and kill and wreck

and consume

Permuted Love Poem

I

rust shipwreck tincan

paleshore, wave

rust, tincan bleed, paleshore

wave tincan, rust

wave, pale shore

II

rust shipwreck tincan

pale shore, wave

rust, tincan bleed, paleshore

wave tincan, rust

paleshore

III

rust: shipwreck, tincacn!

paleshore:wave~

rust, tincan bleed-paleshore:

wave: tincan bleed-paleshore:

wave: tincan, rust:

paleshore

IV

rustshipwreck: tincan

paleshore: wave:

rusttincan: bleed: paleshore:

wave: tincanrust.

paleshore.

V

[rust tincan      ] paleshore

[                       ]                  wave

[rust paleshore] tincan        wave

VI

[rust] tincan [wave] paleshore

[rust]                       paleshore

tincan [wave]

[wave] paleshore

paleshore

[wave]

R.I.P George Carlin 6/23/08.

De Mammy Gwan Go Fight De Debil

Back in de dey, dey wuz some wild mammy done gone an’ make hu’sef a res’runt dey’s be callin’ Mammy’s. Dis de place dey’s be holdin’ some wilin’ shindigs, an’ deys be servin up the mos goodes’ grubs dis side de Miss’Sippi- dat is tuh say, huh kitchum she dun create dun gone an’ make itsef out tuh be what deys be callum a Soul-Food Empire, but I’s tink deys sayin’ dat jes’ cuz dems food deys be cookin up be some jive ass shit, dun gone and woofed us all up tuh de ‘testines, an’ makes it so ya’lls be shittin’ gold, so’s alls them pale muthafuckas be tinkin we’s of the darkuh variashum be cookin up a deal wif de Debil, but dems jes’ jealous deys food some lame duck, an’ I don means to say deys be eatin some bird, but dat shit deys be shittin jes foul.

So dems ghostier types done feel dat the brudduhs and de sistuhs who’s be eatin de chit’lums and shit’lins out de gold should all gwan an git to de Mammy’s and stay until dey’s be makin what dem white folk call de rep’rashum fo’ what dey’s be cookin up, makin’ dems all richuh den deez he-uh crackuh folk. See, as soons deys not got de uppuh hand, dey gwan’ slap ‘em on de ass, callin em all thefts an’ robboys. De white folk dun gwan and summon up demselves some-uh dem from don below where deys be sayin we’s got de secret res’pee fo’ de magic chit’lums. Dey done gwan an’ git demsevs some debils fo’ dey damn sev, tink deys gwan git some Debil Food sos dey be shittin out de gold like de brudduhs be gwan done did. Stead, dey gwan git some tree nasty bitches, gwan gime some dat shit gwan turn tuh cake ’stead.

So’s dems white folk think deys got uh weopum gwan make dat de’uh gold back tuh shit, dat dems be eatin’ at Mammy’s gwan wan’ dessert at de Debil’s Food, but what dey’s fo’gettums, de only ting de black folk be likin mo’ dens de gold is de chit’lums, and dey gold ain’t mean shit tuh shit. Dem’s white folk could’uh jes uh well ask for de gold, ‘cept de deal dey cumcocted gwan an’ make dems all ugly ass muthfuckas, scare off all de black folk, who all gwan back to Mammy’s. Dey’s not de leas’ bit comsoimed fo’ de Debils de whities dun call, who come up’n de’uh now, all up in de Mammy kitchum, gwan be askin fo’s to talk to de Mammy-In Chief. Let’s all see what dey’s be cookin up, dat de white folk thinkuhll change the cookums for dey’s favuh. Heuh dems tree bad muthfuckas now, all up in de Mammy Kitchum. Dis tall one in duh suit gwan an’ offuh his say foist:

“Hello, Miss Mammy? I am here from the Devil’s Food Dessert Company, and I was in the neighborhood to inquire as to whether you would be interested in serving our Devil’s food cake in your fine establishment.”

“Wha’? Chyall bes talkin’ sum jive ‘n I ain’s be innerestum in yo’ debil food. Dis heuh be food’s de soul, we ain’t serv’n none that damn shit roun’ heuh.”

“Pardon, me ma’am, but I cannot understand you, would you mind speaking a little more clearly?”

“Ya’ll some ignant muthfuckas, come all up’n heuh my kitchum, talkin’ my speak ain’ cleuh. Dun gone woofed up wha’ev’s deal ya’lls be cookin up. We ain’ innerest yo gotdan debil food, we dun gots de Soul heuh, ain’ no room fo de debil up’n dis house!”

So, Mammy dun gwan an run de debil out de kitchum, so dey’s gwan be askin’ dey’s secum man from de debil tuh gwan git mammy tuh sign huh soul all up fo’ de debil. Heuh he come now, he de one done gots hissef a fancy hat, gwan be askin’ all fo Mammy tuh sign huh all up fo’ de cake be turnin dems shit back all up into debil food.

“How you doin’, today Mammy? I hear ya’lls gots youself a mean chitterlum, turnin all dem black folk shit all up innuh gold. That some fine food ya’lls got, wif de gold an all. Ya’ll mine tryin out someuh our cake? Dis cake heuh be the best we got souf side the mason-dix.”

“Ya’lls be speakins dem vern’aclur much bettuh, but I know ya’lls gwan come up from de Debil, ‘n I ain’t servin’ naw debils, gwan turn mah cus’mers innuh zombie-slabe uh de Debil! Ya’lls gwan git yuhza rotten muthafucka! ‘N ya’lls be smellin like some rottum egg, too!”

Now dat she dun gwan an run out de secum debil, dey down in Hell tink dey dealum wif more’n dey can handle! Dey done gwan and hire demselv uh tird debil, gwan an’ turn hissef black likum mammies up’n de res’runt, tink he gwan fool de ol’ mammy who work’n de kitchum, an’ not like de propuh propri-tur uh de place. Dey tink dey’s got deh mammy by de chit’lums, but deys forgettum ev’n de mammy shit be gold! Not like de debil, all smellin’ like fiuh ‘m brimstone, rottum egg’n such. He done walk innuheuh naw, n’ he gots some trick up’s sleeve, thinkum he de shit.

“Mammy, ya’ole nassy bitch, watchall dwan all up’n dis heuh kitchum, work like chall ain’t been freed yet!”

“Sumbitch, I makes de bes’ chit’lums in de gotdan worl’, thinkum like I ain’t de shit, watchall think? Like I ain’t de Queen Mammy up’n dis bitch.”

“Mammy, you’s a fine mammy, dey gwan putchall tuh work like you ain’ own de damn place! Watchu say dat?”

“You sumbitch, come all’up’m mah kitchum insul me like I some damn slabe! Chall think chall kin cook up some chit’lums like dis heuh mammy, yuh dunno shit!”

“Mammy I heuh talk ya’lls be servum up some chit’lums ain’ be clean out like sposed tuh, makum de shit some’n nasty! Say ya’lls been loosin yo touch, ain’ changum up de menus an’ growan old! Ya’ll need tuh gets some’n new’n sweet all up in dis heuh mammyshack!”

“Whatchu say?”

“Ya’lls be loosum bitnaz, ain’ servum dat shit deys got cross de road, gots demsevs a deal wif de compney! Dey’s be makum some’adat debil food cake, all dey black folk done lef yo res’runt gwan git someuh dat like’s gwan out style!”

Now, de debil heuh done gwan cas’ uh spell up’n de res’runt, gwan make hisselv an illooshum like deys no one in de whole damn place! Mammy gwan hab hussef a scare an almos make some gold hussef! But dis mammy ain’ no day-ol, dis heuh mammy gots uh head like she uh know ting uh tree.

“Debil! Yuh know I ain’ some’uh yo dumbasses! I know ya’lls cast yousef an illushum up on mah house, I ain’ no dummy! Lor’ mah whitmess, I done gwan knock yo ass back on down tuh hell, shit!”

Jes den, an Angel who be pass’n by heuh de ruckus, gwan see what de mess about, gwan an’ see de debil an’ de mess he gwan makeum come on innuh Mammy’s, gwan up tuh de debil be makeum hissef unwanted, an’ de Angel cas’ hissef a spell’uh himsown!

“Debil,” he say, “Debil, can’t make yuh gwan back where yuh came, but I sure’s hell kin keep yo sorry ass outuh heuh! Me an’ de odduh heralds uh light kin banish ya’ll ass so yalls kin nebbuh come back innuh heuh agin! Get dee away, debil, I say! Yo’s debil food ain’ no match fo de soul food up’n heuh, naw git!”

‘N dis be de way Mammy dun gwan an conquer de debil so’s de black folk cumtimyoo tuh be shittins de gold from de chit’lums, and de whities dun stay ugly cuz deys been comfound by de debil, and de debil comfound cuz he ain’ finish de job! Now de brudduhs and de sistuhs all down’n Mammy gots all de gold AN’ de foods, and we ain’t talkum no debil food.

An Open Letter To You

Today, everyone moved in and convocation was held. This was by no means the sort of orientation session I expected; this program is, at it’s very core, causing the individual to be involved with their surroundings and create community. After the initial necessary formalities (rules and regulations of the campus and logistics of the program, staff and faculty introductions), every single student and participant of the program was asked to stand and introduce themselves, where they were from and to either tell about an luminous experience in a foreign country or to say what they would change about the frequency of something in their life or the world.

As you might imagine, this was the longer part of convocation, and quite a powerful plunge into the program. It forced us to really listen and be present to each other as people, gave every individual a voice, and to see each other’s faces, and hear where everyone has been, or where they plan on going. I heard some of the most honest, open, powerful experiences and intentions put out so willingly, and I was truly afraid of these people around me.

I am often unsure and uncomfortable with both of these things; often, I do not feel very proud of where I’ve “been,” while other times I wear it like a war wound to prove how strong I am, how smart, how awful or awesome, how much life experience I have. And I am so afraid of the future, so afraid of responsibility for who I could be, or might become, that I rarely make any choice at all. This whole week, I’ve sat in my room, alone, afraid to go outside to even get something to eat. Often I am so unsure of where I am going that I refuse to go forward at all. Maybe that’s why I rely on my past so heavily to create an identity; the actions that make up my past are the vocabulary which describes me now. It’s the only language I know, and often I feel it’s too late to teach myself a new one, or to learn one from new people around me.

When I stood up, I told them about myself, perhaps more succinctly than most others in the room:

“I’m H Ziskind from Philadelphia.
I’d like to speak less frequently and listen more frequently.”

Then I sat down.

Sometimes, I am truly afraid of you; because of how willing you are to do new things, to learn, to put yourself out there so selflessly. These people scared me because of how honest they were with themselves, and deciding to powerfully occupy the identities they created. I am afraid of you because of how sure of yourself you are, even if you’re dishonest. I am afraid of your accountability- which is not to say you are much more accountable than I. You’re just less concerned about it. I’m so fucking concerned about how unaccountable I am, concerned about how I’ll be perceived, concerned with pursuing so many identities that I can’t occupy any.

I hung out with one of my roommates and a girl we met outside smoking cigarettes, and we all went back to my apartment to talk and get to know each other, and I still find myself unable to escape myself. I’m worried about saying too little, I’m afraid of telling to much, revealing the wrong things, being annoying, and in my preoccupation, I become all these things. I am so afraid of alienating people that I alienate myself.

Maybe it’s all of us, and we’re all uncertain of ourselves, and so we’re all just settling into who we are around people who don’t know us. Maybe that’s why I miss you so much, because even if we never speak, never communicate, never put any effort forth, you’re still familiar. And even if we’re both new in reference to who the other’s become, we still no each other in reference to who we were, and it is comforting to have that, at least, a jumping off point upon which to build, to add. I am completely new to these people, and I don’t know who to be, because of how new I am to myself.

I’m afraid, because maybe these people don’t want to be friends, maybe it’s just easy because we’re all here and we’re all scared and willing to settle. Maybe that’s why you and I are friends, because of how easy it’s been; we’ve been willing to settle on identities for ourselves that don’t allow us to grow, that don’t challenge. We can be friends without any of the effort; moreso, we can avoid the effort which growth involves. Neither of us is challenged, and so we don’t have to assume the responsibility of challenging the other.

Once in a while, there’s this connection before we start second-guessing ourselves again. Once in a while, we see how good it feels to be challenged, and we want more, but we’re afraid the next thing out of our mouths will be judged, analyzed, criticized. We want to be honest, but it’s a different kind of honesty. It’s an honesty that shades us and reveals nothing. It’s like having a conversation about the weather. I had a hard time even talking about music, tonight. I was afraid I’d say something that was wrong, or coming off like I was trying to hard- because I was.

Because I always am. This week, I havent had to try at all. I’ve been completely alone until today, and I haven’t even had you to talk to, not that I’ve been able to confide much in anyone, anyway, recently. Not for fear of rejection; I am afraid of putting forth too much energy and getting none back, because then my fears will be realized- I can be honest and open and still, you wont want to connect. Or we just can’t connect.

So, I’ve avoided connecting with anyone. I allow myself to be unaccountable so you will just give up anyway. And so you don’t try to connect with me; it gets tiresome for you, I’m sure. And now, I have trouble finding what’s appropriate, how much I can reveal, in which ways are appropriate to reveal myself.

I’m definitely ready for the program to start, so I can start working on something instead of thinking all the goddamn time. So I can stop worrying about what will happen when it starts.

But mostly so I can distract myself from my loneliness. I obviously haven’t found complete peace in being alone, not because I don’t enjoy myself, but because I enjoy who I am alone so much that it’s become difficult to be able to connect with anyone else, and I feel I no longer have the option, that now there is only solitude. Sure; the people who I’m meant to connect with, or do make a connection with, will distinguish themselves- I’ve already seen this happen with you, seen your interest and mine wax and wane. But now I only see your interest wane, and it saddens me. Mostly because I want to connect with you, and I don’t put forth any effort either. And I worry it’s too late. Or too much.

I worry that any communication on my part will be misconstrued as over-interest, dependency. But then I guess my inactivity is misconstrued as apathy. The cycle has gone on for so long, we hardly know each other any more. And the longer it goes on, the more scared I am to put forth effort. I’m sure you’d appreciate hearing from me- I know I long to hear from you.

I just don’t know what is appropriate any more. I feel something is appropriate, but find out it makes people uncomfortable. I feel comfortable until I realize I’ve alienated someone, and that’s when I begin questioning myself. I think maybe I should just be less concerned with relationships with anyone, and then I won’t question my behavior at all. But I miss you dearly, for whatever reason. And if I were to express this, you’d think I was desperate, dependent. No amount of my honesty or energy seems to illicit any response from you, or any new people I encounter.

I find these days I am reconnecting with very old relationships, and that they, too, burn out quickly once the novelty wears off- people who knew each other intimately once feel comfortable enough to express themselves honestly, until they get to know each other again. It’s like a drug: when you are a drug addict for years and then quit for any length of time, you don’t start back at square one. If you start up again, you start with the same fervor and desperation, you tolerance has gone down, but you will do just as much as when you had quit. And you’ll never feel the same as when you first started.

Now I guess we’re learning who we are in reference to ourselves now that we don’t know who we are in reference to each other. We’ve known each other for so long that we expect the same as the last time we were close. But once we realize that the effort we’ve put forth has now a different outcome, we become afraid of this new unknown, because it is unknown where before it was intimate. Now this familiar thing is unfamiliar. And we cannot decide if it is worth our time or effort to connect to it. Just like people who first meet are just trying to figure out if it is a relationship worth pursuing.

I still cannot decide what identity is most appropriate or beneficial for me to create. I am free to do and be the things I enjoy and help me grow the most, but I am afraid to change, because if I did, you may pursue me less then you do now. At least now you have a familiar image of me. If I decided to act upon my full potential, perhaps you’d feel how I feel around you: intimidated, inferior, anxious, stupid. I’d never try to disempower you, just as you’ve never tried to disempower me. But who I feel I am in reference to you makes me feel weak, because of how strong and beautifully powerful you command yourself, how little you seem to need me, because of how certain and comfortable you are with yourself. I guess I’m happy with myself; I’m just worried other people won’t be. Maybe if I worried less about that, I’d rise about my highest expectation of myself because of how little I’d be concerned with your expectation of me. I constrain myself to my perception of other’s expectations of me.

There is no way for me to end this letter. I feel I’ve only written the first half, because I’ve only realized my half of the interactions I have with people. I guess now I expect too much of you, more than you expect from me, because I don’t even expect much from me. I’m sick of disempowering myself because of how little I expect of myself. I intend on communicating more with myself and creating a stronger identity for myself based on stronger expectations of myself. And I guess I’m just finished expecting anything of you.

Cake And Beer

In the park, I sat high up in a tree, my head cocked over the branch my body was leaning on so that I saw the ground up above my eyes. Staring off, I had been trying to achieve some trance-like state which appealed to me, but was, as of yet, completely inaccessible. Almost, almost had I drifted off into dream- though not sleep- dream about passing out and falling from the tree into the ground above me. Thankfully for me, I came back down to earth when some lovely young woman smiled up from a spot at the roots. She called up, asking if I had an extra cigarette.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

“Well, that’s too bad, it’s usually my best pick-up.”

“I’m already up a tree. Besides, I don’t kiss girls who smoke.”

“What if I quit?”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t quit for me.”

“Don’t worry; I’m quitting for all the other guys who don’t kiss girls who smoke.”

“Then you’ve got more problems to worry about than smoking.”

“I doubt that, smoking’ll kill ya.”

“Not me, I don’t smoke. I’m too stressed out.”

“Maybe you should start, then. It helps me quite a bit, and I must admit, I’ve got my fair share of shit to deal with.”

“I’m glad for that- I don’t date girls who have more problems than I do.”

I think she saw this wasn’t going anywhere, and that I wasn’t coming down for pussy, but as she walked away, I noticed a dirty, mumbling homeless man drowning himself in a bottle. His beard was yellow with vagrancy and the ages, rasping from his torn face and dribbling with the distraction he so hungrily consumed. He didn’t seem drunk, just crazy. Maybe too crazy to be drunk at all. We made eye contact, and he began to slither on his knees way over to the tree. I leaped down, noticing the girl still walking away in the far distance behind him. He and I met halfway on the field of grass.

Neither of us had any baggage with us, and he was smiling beneath his immensely cloudy beard. He reminded me of a sadhu, but I think it was only his hair and eyes, or the joint he offered to me in return for my time. We sat down beneath the tree, but we both looked up for some reason, into the canopy above, as if searching, waiting, protecting ourselves from something that loomed ominously above in our imagination. We were about to start talking when a group of youths approached us.

“Hey man, lemme get a hit?”

The homeless man had his back to the nearing boys, and was perhaps deaf; I was unsure, as we had not yet verbally acknowledged each other, instead our movements dictated a sort of mutual acceptance of action and need, sitting, lighting the joint and staring at eachother once we had lowered our heads from the branches in a silence interrupted by the youths. Perhaps it was out of annoyance, then, that my new friend ignored their advances. I felt uncomfortable answering for him, so I put out the joint and instead invited them to sit.

“Well, whachy’all doing then? You sure I can’t hit that?”

“Man, I just got down from that tree, I don’t even have a plan yet.” I raised my eyebrow at the homeless man, to whom I covertly handed the joint, which disappeared into his gnarled, calloused grasp.

“Yeah? Well, we just hangin around. We come here to smoke, too.”

“That’s cool, we not really smokin.”

“Man, you run around too much, I don’t know why I can’t jes’ hit that shit.”

“Man, Iyaint runnin nowhere. I’m sittin.”

To that, the youths laughed and sat down before us as if we had some wisdom to impart. The homeless man had seemed to recede into himself, which is to say, he was almost indiscernible from the tree we leaned against. There was no room against the trunk for the youths, so they sat outside the shade which we bathed in. Which I bathed in, and the homeless man became.

“You somethin’ man, you cool, whatchu doin later?”

“I told you, bud, I don’t even know what I’m doing right now.” The homeless man nodded, eyes closed. They stared at me, and I had no choice but to stare back, but averted my gaze as time turned us uncomfortable, and in the distance, I saw the young lady sitting on a bench staring at me. She was too far off for me to read the expression on her face, so I was comforted to know she couldn’t hear me or read my lips.

“Well, you know,” I said, “I have some beer at home and some cake, too, you’re all invited. If you want, that is,” I added, turning to the homeless man, who opened his eyes, which gleamed red and hazy through thick skin and bearded glee.

“Yeah, man, we always tryin tuh get fucked up,” one youth said quickly before I could rescind my comment, adding emphasis to elucidate his interest. The homeless man nodded again.

“Well, I guess you can all follow me, then, we can walk to my apartment now.” The three youths stood quickly and brushed themselves off. The homeless man and I glanced at each other and shrugged our eyebrows silently agreeing to some unspoken judgment. We stretched ourselves to our feet, groaning backs and grasping grass with groping palms, standing to meet our waiting youths, who began walking ahead of us, talking and laughing amongst themselves, looking back occasionally to see which way we were walking. As we left the park, I smiled at the young woman who had approached me with an interest that matched her present distaste. I wished that I had invited her as well, or thought of the idea to invite her before the youths had arrived, but as we passed, our eyes met, hers scowling, and she called me a fag under her breath, to which the youths laughed without grasping the comment, as if it had also been offhanded.

I felt as if I was following these kids to my own place, as if it was their party we were throwing, and the closer we got, the more excited they were, the louder they spoke about getting fucked up. I keep beer around, but perhaps not enough to sate the thirst of their youth. I gave up becoming fucked up when I was their age, which was perhaps only a few years previous, and so was interested in seeing how fucked up I would become under their influence. I opened the door to my apartment, outside which they were waiting, and asked them to respectfully remove their shoes when they entered.

“Whatchu talking about, man? There ain’t shit in this place to get dirty, I don’t know why I have tuh take my shoes off, damn.”

They were right; I kept my place sparse, a few chairs and a table, a fridge and incomplete kitchenette gave the appearance of my transience therein. Instead of answering, I opened the fridge (which would be empty after the beers had been finished). I also had cake sitting on the counter, which the youths ate with their hands and without consent. It didn’t bother me in the least. The homeless man, who seemed to be like my shadow now, also helped himself to cake and beer and, unlike the youths, was silent, jovial and without complaint at my meager arrangement. He and I had only small pieces of the cake, which seemed to fill us immediately, and we pushed our plates away from us on the small table which became quickly filled with empty beer cans. The two of us watched the youths, whose number seemed to grow as their excitement began to exceed our interest in observing them silently. We tried to keep up, but it seemed as if we were unable to match their inebriation though we matched their consumption. Instead, we became more sober, and the youths lost any interest they had in us, instead drinking and eating amongst themselves as if in a separate room. I couldn’t understand what they were saying anymore; they had been yelling excitedly about previous inebriatory exploits, and ones in which they planned on participating later. I began to loose them, instead I stared open-mouthed, trying to listen, but hearing only slurred slapstick sounds of juvenile abandon.

Suddenly, and to my surprise, the homeless man, who had been as still as the couch we sat upon, and whom I had forgotten, vomited violently upon the empty cans, spilling acidic upon the table, whose countenance reflected inversely the empty room. I suddenly became aware of how absurd it all was; a terribly dirty and cramped table- upon which I had, in my mind, grouped the loudening youths- amidst the silent emptiness of the room, which seemed to have responded in rejection through the homeless man. I asked if he was ok, and for the first time, I heard his voice;

“Ig’not e’n drun’, iz tha’ gotdan cake, I just could’n keep it dawn. And that fuckem burr is like ip’cac, fuck. I can’t take all this fucken noise, gotdan.”

The youths had stopped completely, staring in amazement and what seemed like genuine fear and disgust. I wondered if they had never vomited in their lives.

“Man, I think we’d bet’r get out’a here, thanks. Good cake, still hungry, though.”

And, as if by some magic, the youths were gone, and through the emptiness and silence of my apartment, it would seem like they had never been there, and the cans and vomit receded into the mundanity of their surroundings. My companion also seemed to recede, his eyes staring dully ahead into the yellowish wall before him. I was quite frankly stunned and confused by this whole ordeal, which was, to say the least, dull and trying. I was sure that the homeless man could relate.

“Hey, man… do you want to crash here?”

His head snapped around, eyes like glowing embers retaining the heat the youths had been projecting wildly. Deeply he stared into a part of me I suddenly felt guilty about. I realized that he had never been a friend, just as the youths were simply visiting usura in my house, but instead a passing vagrant who drank so much he couldn’t get drunk from beers some kids had left over from their debauches. He was some seeker who didn’t have anything here to find. He was awake in a way I couldn’t possibly force myself into. He was unsatisfied in a way which embarrassed me.

“Yuh fucken brat, you tried tuh fucken poison me!” He screamed, leaping to his feet and backing away from me, knocking into the table, spilling bile and beer can ass all over the spotless carpet. He retched and doubled over, puking all over my walls and floor.

“You fucken kid! Fucken brat!” I honestly didn’t know what to say, I was perhaps too stuffed from whatever cake I had nibbled and lethargic from a sustained buzz which never seemed to consummate itself. He had become wild and untamed, beard flecked with angry bowel and half-digested beer. Accusatory, he heaved himself throughout the room screaming until he was out the door.

I sat. It’s all I could do to keep from crying in this empty room. I felt like I should become the couch, there just wasn’t anything left but to become inanimate. I missed them all, mostly the girl in the park. I wished they were still here, I wished I had more beer, more cake, more to offer, more incentive for them to stay. I felt as if I had implored them here, it didn’t matter how much I hated any of them, they could have spent the night, they could have drank all my beer, I would have made them dinner if I had had food. I felt guilty for pushing them away, for not having enough, for having too much, for not trying hard enough to give them something to bring them to the state they desired, for trying too hard to state their desire for something I could not give. Even now, here I am imagining what drove them away when in fact it wasn’t me, not my drive to be surrounded amidst my emptiness, but the emptiness I invited them into, the emptiness I invited in, the emptiness I offered to their consumption. No amount of nothing could match the emptiness which they brought here to meet with mine, and again, I was alone. I laid down on the couch, my head falling over the edge, making the ground come up above my eyes as I tried hard as I could to incite some trance-state I so sorely desired, and knew absolutely nothing about.