When I Was Young in the City

takes place in LA, 2003-2005

     When I was young in the city, I'd often visit a large abandoned Church that was partially destroyed in a fire.  I'd wander the halls and imagine the faces of its junkie inhabitants who hid in the supernatural-darkness.  I'd listen to their relentless whispers petition the lord with prayer.  The soft beat of my step confused the whispers, creating some mad new language, slowly driven to fear.  The hot breath of the invisible insects leaked through the walls as I moved deep.  Then I'd see the angry cloud of a sorrowing mass shudder in the still cold if I did not fade as they did, into the shadows.  I was the nighttime verger.  And when I remembered to bring a stone with me, I'd use it to shatter a window - intent on waking the huddled crowd to the glorious sight of a hole in their deedless cosmos - hoping to rouse one of them from their cowering pit.  None came into the light.  Once, out of rage, I threw my stone at a sleeper.  The thud echoed forever.

     When I was young in the city, I caught the number five to my late night theater shift.  I liked it when the bus would round the bend in a twinkle and break the fog into tiny glowing galaxies.  I could see each particle as a star under the streetlight spark.  And there I'd be, lonely, tender in the middle of change.  Standing between the solidity of depravation and Franklin Street eating some cheap Chinese.  In the grip of conformity and poetic paranoia, my vigil stuck on the electric glow above the giant buildings, and my legs chained to subteranean angels, who with me have seen what should remain unknown.  I could never leave - so, I'd periodically check for the same man in denim work-clothes sitting a short distance behind me on a fire hydrant.  He wasn't like the others who loomed righteously.  He refused to make eye contact and sat darkly.  One night when the bus was late, he focused in on me in his head.  I saw his mind twitch.  I flicked my cigarillo in his path when he got too close - he never did it again.  When the bus was late, the cold stench of the streets would become unbearable - I'd begin to feel the damp stink seep into my pores and freeze the tip of my nose solid.  I looked forward to when I'd get to step on the bus.  It would sink and let out a gasp - it made me feel heavy.

     When I was young in the city, I made an attempt to tangle a friend's shoelaces while he talked on a payphone.  It worked.  He fell onto the outline of a murder scene.  The bullet shells were numbered, one through nine.  I remember not hearing a thing while I slept that night - I had a pretty good night's sleep in fact.  You should've seen his body spread out in front of that bus-stop at the corner of Highland Ave. and Hollywood Blvd., said a shrill old white-lady, pointing at the street signs - his leg was oddly curled back, she muttered as she threw her hands up.  Maybe he ran into his salvation.  I also remember the smell of death rising with the morning air.  Most of the time I'd walk the streets and alleys alone around midnight.  When I crossed Highland Ave. though, things changed.  Further east, past Las Palmas and its deified slum hotels, into the void of the metropolis naively sent - I buried my mind and affirmed the reality of the jungle surrounds as I took new vision.  A bum pleading his empty bottle to change.  A Mexican organ rim culturing inexpensive cherries loosely for the empty concrete corridors in a sack.  Past an angry young actress with her knees in her face on the dewey hood of a car lamenting, fists clenched.  On the other side, a man beating his pathetic shrew into desolate colors; quietly.  A naked negro shitting himself on the run - my hair waved in the wind he stirred.  Then a dear old man prowling for good boys to feed his sickness dares to smile, and in every godless minute death stirs the edge of my perimeter.

     When I was young in the city, I'd stakeout bars for weaknesses.  If necessary, I scaled its walls for any avenue - this became a hobby and my friends, especially Conor, loved sneaking me in.  Sometimes I got to use my "big brother" Greg's South African passport - it always worked, except at Barney's Beanery, it's the one place where I never got in.  I guess we looked alike to almost everyone - that black bouncer was sharp.  Before all this, I started with overwhelming confidence in the carelessness of the bouncer and would just walk through the door.  Binged with a true passion for tenacity and aimed to throw up before the end - hopefully in the bar itself.  Where I'd set course as a faultless madman.  Dimly-lit action and shelved mobility for windy breath! - my lips deny no drink, so I learn to tighten my grip.  Along to a quivering rhyme, amidst the speaking shadow, as my eyes roll about their sockets in fastigium of the country jukebox.  Nothing says, I don't give a s**t, more than throwing up on a bar counter.  As time went on, however, this became more difficult to do and success grew questionable. 

     One night, as I stumbled home, I found a freshly carved n****e lying bloodied in my path.  I noticed its hairs still stood upright.  I gathered that it belonged to a woman because of the size, and that I might be the first to have seen it.  I nudged it with the toe of my shoe, translucent reds streamed into the porous pavement.  Something else happened here I thought.  Then I heard a foot drag on loose pebbles - I turned back to see nothing.  I heard a steel sling sound echo in the shadow.  A low-life cackle that made me sick.  Then three faces stepped out from a black hole.  Three little Mexican trannies; one in a blue long-dress and red wig, the far left one held a switchblade.  The one in the middle spat bile with a gooey corrosion under his chin: yeah, it's a f*****g n****e sweatie, he said as he inched closer.  I kicked it towards him and ran.  I had to get drunk all over again that night.