Black sludge, mud falling over my window like a tongue. Rain dripping down in little rivulets, between the tongue and my window.
A man in a beige trench coat and a black hat on the street corner under the conical light.
Traffic. Taxi’s, Audi’s swooshing by. I hear a siren but see only the faint peripheral flipping of red and white on the brick apartment buildings. Must be one of the side streets.
Listening to Coltrane, "Giant Steps." Lights out. Candles.
There’s a lady in purple walking towards the man by the street lamp. She doesn’t know he’s dangerous.
Out my door, I hit the stairs running, tapping each with the balls of my feet. Six flights of stairs and I’m to the bottom in no time. Nobody’s out there. With luck, I see a sliver of her dress going around the far building on Washington. I don’t have my jacket. Fuck it.
Could use some galoshes, my shoes are all wet. I pass raincoats and overcoats with collars turned up, broad brimmed hats dripping, the glasses that look at me foggy. Goddamnit I just saw her. Where’d they go?
Down Washington after 43rd, the streetlights have gone out. Only the lights and silhouettes from behind dimmed windows mark my path. I turn around and see black. I look up and see nothing but faint clouds. The pavement turns soft, it sucks at my feet, grounds me to my knees. Men come from nowhere and start hitting me. "What I’d do?" I scream. "Help!" The clubs like little caveman weapons, hats and hands covered in black leather, black wool. Fuck, my ribs, Oww! my skull. "Stop! Stop it, please!"
Suddenly a wave of people, coming from the doorways of houses with nimble feet like ants or squirrels surround my attackers and probe and strip and trip them up. My attackers’ hats fall off, their gloves are torn to pieces. They dissolve into the cement and all that remains are the tatters of their clothes. The house folks move back inside doorways as nimble as they arrived. I hold my ribs and struggle out of the neighborhood. A street light, a large bright light I can see. It seems to point at me. I’m racing into it. Where’s the rain?
A man plays in a jazz club. Above dim, candlelit tables. Blowing his horn like the next Miles Davis. Black men in purple or maroon suits tap their hands while their divas look around, decked out in red dresses, black jackets thrown over their chairs. Their hair is coifed like a pound cake, topped with a red crown, sprinkled with sequins. They’re not enjoying this and lean towards their dates to ask to leave. I’m at the front, behind the velvet curtains, taking in the lights and the music coming up around me like a chaos of flies and dust around my head. The music wraps me up and I see nothing but birds, blue herons in the thousands in a wave of wings and legs and beaks. I’m swept up in their rush.
I’m taken to the country. Long green hills and single oak trees, sparse. In the center of the valley, a white rabbit is picking grass and a bear is upon him, stomping him, slamming him back and forth, tearing him limb from limb. The bones and strings of sinuous muscles and red stained fur. Limp. The bear’s hungry eyes turn to me and I sink into the soil, uniform. He is upon me and, instead of clawing, pushes on my head, down deep, until I’m surrounded in cold, moist soil, until I’m in someone’s little round hut, like Little Red Riding Hood, at night. I see a nice old lady in pajamas carrying a cup of steaming tea. I see outside the window a gray wolf with white splotches on his thick chest. He rubs his paws together and his dark eyes shine like wet stones at night. Grandmother can’t see him, she’s nearly blind. He looks at me in the corner and snaps his shiny fangs in my direction and smiles. He blows a kiss and then leaps through the window, shattering glass onto the floor. Grandmother writhes under his grip; she’s a fighter, she has more blood than a whale. But she’s flailing soon, losing strength, the grisly wolf is tossing bones like toothpicks, ripping flesh, tearing her heart and lungs away and stuffing them down his throat. He suddenly remembers I’m watching and walks over to the corner. I’m trembling, I look at Grandmother’s smattering blood and remains and start swinging as hard as I can. I close my eyes.
Blood spatters the mirror. I pop another zit. Glad Cecile’s not here. God, some feel like jello. Ah fuck, there’s a gusher.
A knocking. I tiptoe to look out the eyehole. Lightning crashes and the power goes out. Through the eyehole, I see blackness, my hand on the brass knob, other hand on the chain. I open it as fast as I can and nothing is there. I feel warm breath sawing past my feet. I hear little claws ramble into the living room, in the direction of the faded orange couch.
It lies down and is breathing heavy. Soon it slows and then it’s snoring. I imagine some gray withered belly, patches of thin hair over it, swelling against the floor. The sound is so rhythmic. It nearly puts me to sleep as I sit above it. A bright colored blanket appears before me and I am sailing through the clouds of day. They feel like sand. Birds scream past me. The blanket is in rivulets and waves. I can hear people crying on the ground. Down there, way down there. I must be in the center of feeling.
My hands spread behind me, feet spread in front. My long black hair like laundry in the breeze. I come upon the city. Black and gray buildings, some brown gray, in bunches like a little Lilliput. It doesn’t look so fortressed from up here. I sail down into it, past empty office windows, above yellow-lit taxis. All of them are nice, the cars are Taurus’, long and shiny. All are available tonight.
Except one that ambles up a dark street. Between black soot, script into concrete and drains, and red buildings, covered in black night. Slanted stairs and concrete rails three feet wide beside the stairs. The taxi stops and the woman in purple rushes out. I sail down close, ten feet above her. The taxi freaks out when he sees me and squeals through the neighborhood. She says, "Motherfucker." She has a long brown trench coat, handles hanging from her hips. The coat is open down the middle to reveal the sashay purple dress. Her lipstick is kidney colored, covering medium sized lips. She has a beauty mark to the right and up an inch. I reach out to touch her hair, her caramel black afro. She turns and sees right through me, she looks right into the street. Then she unlocks her door and takes her roses inside and bolts everything shut. I sit on the stoop and wail and scream and pound myself. I start running, I don’t know where. Washington must be near. FFFUUUCCCKKK!!!
The streets are solid and black. I hit a manhole or two and feel the steel dimples on my feet. I stand on one hoping to be risen, taken back up to my magic blanket. Hoping to sail to mountain peaks, desert’s deepest center, some dream, a beach, a margarita. Traffic starts up at a higher clip, sunlight streaks along the horizon. Shops open, awnings spread out. Fat men, small, with bald heads stare at me for a moment and return to their oranges. They put on green aprons and some reading glasses and inspect the oranges.
A taxi whizzes by. A streetwalker scurries toward a garbage can and jumps in. A cougar leaps over my head, silver. I look at the clouds and they’re abysmal, rain today for sure. A horse, a man in knight’s armor at the end of the street. I look down. My haunches surround the brown breathing ribs of a horse, too. The lance relaxes in my hand like a piece of dough. My head tingles. A crowd gathers, red and black striped poles are raised in my opponent’s honor and everyone boos me. My horse prances delicately, leading me in a circle. A woman, queenly, in purple satin, looks at me and smiles demurely. Then she pretends she never saw me, leans into a king with a beard like Gilgamesh, and says queenly things. I drop the lid of my helmet and start laughing. I close my eyes and laugh loudly, hysterically. People stampede around me. I can hear their feet pattering up beside me. I can’t stop laughing. A smooth licking over my face like a wet towel or a tongue. The city awakens. Taxi’s are beeping, ignoring people, looking for rich suits. I stand with a garbage lid in my hand. A garbage man yells, "Put that damn thing down." So I go buy a newspaper. Only the Post is out this early. Might as well have some cover. Cream blouses underneath red plaid dresses pass me. Nimble feet in dress shoes all around me. Some well-worn work boots. Smell of exhaust makes me noxious. I try to saunter home but get lost. The ground is wet and soft. Nobody here knows me. Stares with long white beards and big white eyes surround me. My Post has turned to clothes. A baby diaper I have to hold up around my waist.
I tap my feet, my feet are bare, I hold my hands straight down at my side and close my eyes. The diaper settles around my feet. Traffic rushes past and I hear voices screaming, "Get out of the way." Elbows jab my back, my ribs. One even hits me in the nuts, someone pokes my cheek with a pen. I want to run, I want to scream. I clench my eyes and scream. I scream. I scream. I won’t go hoarse or asleep, I won’t lose my screaming. Soon it’s all I hear and people stop touching me. Nothing scampers around me. Traffic has melted and coalesced.
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