Beneath the Beauty
other titles l)y PMip Arima Anthologies Playing in the Asphalt Garden Shard I Shard II chapbooks Blood Guts and Automatic Beds QuacMed N.D.H. Wednesday's Children Beneath the Beauty Rainbow (with Jen Hatbeiman}
Beneath the Beauty
PHip Atima
INSOMNIAC PRESS
Copyright © 1996 Phlip Arima (text) Copyright © 1996 Bonnie Portalance (art) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 6 Adelaide St. E., Suite 900, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5C 1H6. Designed & edited by Mike O'Connor Copy edited by Lloyd Davis, Liz Thorpe & Tony Hightower Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Arima, Phlip, 1963 Beneath the beauty Poems. ISBN 1-895837-36-7 I. Title. PS8551.R762B45 1996 PR9199.3.A53B45 1996
C811'.54
C95-933020-8
Printed and bound in Canada Insomniac Press 378 Delaware Ave. Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M6H 2T8 Some of the pieces in this collection were previously published in the following publications: Hate Literature, Plazm, The Gargoyle, Bomb Threat Checklist, The L.C.P. Museletter, The Muse Journal, and Pmoderkeg Magazine. The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Ontario Arts Council Writers' Reserve Program.
tltank yott
Kyril Chen Tony Hightower Kingsley Ettienne Manny Goncalves Tod Monahan Christine Coy Bart Cross Mariko Chow and, especially, Elizabeth Richards. Your friendship and encouragement helped me become the person I am.
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I Remember Holiday Home Is Where You Go When They The Crack Train Ride To See Red The Volume Inside Cranked Too High The Scene That Screams A 5 Block Skip Mister Blind Man Today Fallen Player Rainbow Desire Thoughts three through seven Softness Outside TGH Parting Mayuko Last Breath Madness Spare Change Your 3:57 Media Flash Baml>er D.S. We Cut Short The Squirrel 8 The Girl The Daily News It's Different Out Here The Killing
11 13 16 18 19 20 11 11 14 26 28 29 30 31 32 34 35 36 37 38 40 42 43 44 45 46 48 49 50
Portrait Plea Tears With Patience Survival of the Fittest Road Kill The Colourful Dust Drought The Light Stays On
56 57 58 59 60 61 63 64 69
For Lee who always asked me the cpiestions I most needed to answer,
And for Maggie who held my hand while I wrote this hook,
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i r e m e m b e r an empty i s l a n d
d r i f t i n g in a p e t r o l e u m sea
without destiny
screaming
take me
free me
g e n t l y seed me
w i t h w i l d f lower
beauty
ill
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Holiday. Lady Day Little Lady Holiday. Two-twenty Saturday night, st. clair near yonge in a roundthe-clock restaurant, big mike, christine. carla, June, carl, fred, tamarra. all three Steves, brian. a dave i knew and a dave i didn't, and a whole bunch of others that i'd never met. doing the caffeine scene to close the evening. I'm at a table with four near the door, one empty chair sitting there available, when jeanie, lean and clean arrives and says: hi, this is my kid. sits the child on my left then buzzes off to learn what's what from the who of who's yackity-yacking the talk they walk.
"1 ') I
:,.J
They called her Holiday, named after, you got it, Lady Day, Miss Billie Holiday, just ten years old was Little Day, Little Lady Day, Holiday, ten years old and holding her own with five strange guys she'd never known, sipping chocolate, eating crackers, listening then replying to everything we asked, bright, sweet Holiday, laughing at the things we'd say, laughing at the things she said. Now, getting close to three a.m. the crowd is thin with more folks leaving every few minutes, jeanie's sitting on brian's lap and he, who knew the thread he tread, keeps right on pushing despite the fact the heads remaining scattered throughout the room are turning his direction, checking out the action. From the side of an eye with a nod of the head, big mike tells fred, tamarra, me: shit's about to splatter, be ready to happen. and sure enough, before i can even signal acknowledgement, stan (Holiday's daddy, jeanie's old man) strolls through the door and reads the score.
14
The fight is quick — three accusations, a shriek, jeanie's two
slaps earning her a swollen beak, one glass broken, the party over, everyone leaves for home, stan, dragging jeanie by the hair, leading the exodus without regard for the rest of us. Holiday looks to me. i to tarnarra. tamarra to fred. fred to mike. but big mike's up front pushing his face into the couple's space, so i try to smile for Little Day's sake and she says to me: it will be alright, takes my hand and asks if she can stay with me for just one night. I look to tamarra. she to fred. and he says: yes, we'll take the kid home with us. so i give Little Day, Holiday a hug goodnight, she kisses my cheek, pulls back a foot as if to speak, then silent, turns, takes tamarra's hand.
15 'A
-. /
more insidious than myth.
Home Js toe profile of a smile hanging above the shifting crowd, the piss in the pavement cracks turning to ammonia, style a cape draped across visceral response, denial is the penultimate commandment, it is also the first, iporance the last, they alternate until all slots are foil, subconscious imperatives carved in a substance less yielding than stone. home is where yon go.
the woman on the other side of the aisle is scanning through a stack of over-sized envelopes, checking labels, three: five: eleven: twelve: she shows to the man whose hand fidgets near her shoulder, he nods, he smiles, he nods, he looks bewildered, the smell of pizza through tie window, i become a salivating dog. i am disappointed, thought my stoicism
•"1 /i
better equipped, wish i could crawl inside an envelope.
Where You Go the profile of a smile as depicted by a dentist, a man vacates a forward facing seat, i am too slow, a globe reader gets there first, has a buttou-dowo collar and chain 'rand his throat, he immediately tarns to context, is deeply enmeshed in our planetary problems. Blind-numbing miracles. monocular thoutht
home is where you go.
more insidious than myth, this is my stop, the air hot, thick on my palate. taste of e\haust/ion. i make the three-block walk, wait for a train to pass, cross the tracks. back a hoard from the derelict factory, climb into the basement cool.
,.$ t.
-M^jt f
17 if
sleep.
when they look at me like that
When
the edge of my vision gets watery i|f§| vacuum mutes surrounding sound f "4°v" spine feels like a high voltage wire ^ when they look at me like that i am a bird in city traffic when they look at me like that i think of automatic weapons walking down the street alone beneath a sunny summer sky hearing streetcars automobiles rock 'n' roll music too watching the world on the move walking down the street alone humming a song as i go i see their eyes get a little wide hear them hush hold their breath when they look at me that way i know the thoughts they think to say when they look at me that way i want the strength to speak my say
18
they
To See Red
Mav^iearA&pieg^akgf see||ig red whenin.a rage, ^ong di|f)rted vie^ ' Far too often I go blind, a complete blackout: no thought, no feeling, no perception of anything at all. Only in the aftermath of the madness do I realize my loss of control; destroyed tables, chairs, shattered glass, broken bodies, sometimes blood, on two occasions dead puppets no longer breathing.
20
At times I can induce the mysterious red haze, sitting quiet in my room, walking down a sunny street I sink into the memories of my childhood home: the screams, the shouts, throwing of things, the drinks, the drugs, swelling faces. But always, always somehow it feels artificial, divorced from the anguish churning inside, the tension straining my throat. An approximation of the torment I wish to inflict.
call it tunes, icall it plaq.1l
all it.sedation, i call it the iiay. i coll it donee, i calllit existence, the volume inside s cranked too high. I'm just
a pretty baby trying to 5LUOi|. i'm just o pfettn tiatii trying to sway, screaming!
loud cd sound noise in
stereo, screaming loud cdj sound noise in stereo, neigh-i kours collinj to complain, floorboards trembling, still the pain, screaming loud cd sound noise in stereo, logic thought collision course, every mirror breaking from its frame, still the pain. so i hold me tight and i silent say: oh pretty baby, baby smai|. oh pretty baby, baby
suiay. andi do not seethe
pain, i do not hear the call, i do not feel the shard of glass The Volume Inside
no matter houi hard i slash. Cranked Too High
t
h
e
s c e n e
t
h
a
t
screams Hiat-i atoove
the ooh, the goo. the ooewgooey overcoats stained with dirly slush and stockings splashed with boozey vomit, the gagglely-gagglely-gagglelyboo office towers dark with carbon monoxide automobile exhaust. the muck, the uck. the concrete parks, apartment complexes, houses with windows that have never been opened, the hiss and the piss and the hidden sewage system and flashing advertisements... High above the blah and the blech and the radio stations that repeatedly play the same |j|y songs.||he eekjjhil freak, the magazine sho?|^ph€? x-rated films are watched, the tacky-tacka:ugfi-fq^|^-ug :gf:g|i|J|| :.![§..j^iB>,jfilrili'^^^ pumps, slick hair, polished teeth and coloured contacts, the niggilly-piggiUy-wiggeUy-wig9l|||^^B|| smiles that swear I am sincere while fhfiili|ij|| behind Itwists another's ear... •IH ig hi a fc>ov^
the suckity-suck-suck and endless clean cables of television static, the ah and the awe and the overcrowded hospitals, jails and institutions designed to ties, thriving rodents, parliament buildings and dull the imagination, the ikky-ik-ikkity. banking facilirecruitment centres, the yummy-yum-yum-mmm-yum22
mmm-yum stores that sell more than thirty-one
flavours of ice cream a single parent can never-ever. ever afford...
High above the kiss, the itch, the slowly decomposing cigarette
tips, the one-ofl-a-king clothing shops the gurote guzzle-gulp half-eaten meats poked into toltest. the slash and zowwy-bash glossy publlications featuring air-brushed teenagers. the coin eating pool tables. video games. slot machines, the beans. the beans, the magic-beany-beans, the scene that screams; i am the trend you want to be on — follow me, follow me. follow me. me. meeee... High above the slurp, the slop, the warehouses full of alcohol, the stock exchange and traffic courts, the natter, the patter, the vacant churches, crowded discps, and noisy-noise-noise from luxury bedrooms, the cool, the rule, the hip and the hop, the funky laptops and tavern stools, the shimmy-shimmy-shame of drycleaned uniforms and the mould that only grows in illegal basement flats... High above the pish, the posh, the walla-walla-woo, the caw, the coo, the chew-chew-chew, the lewd, the lame, the sane, the straight, the bent, the insane, the drained, the groan and the moon and the sob and the shriek and the laugh and the crash of three million people in search of an exit... a gull flies in circles before facing the storm. 23
skipping down cobblestone streets through Chinatown crowds where mice shoot across noodle house floors anxious in the mid-day rush and rats grow huge unseen in filthy basements skipping down through that town where old women sell bok choy from a crouch on a corner and the heavy scent of boiling lard blows ont every restaurant door down through the place alive with sound and everpe ready to make a deal down where the young are old the old decrepit age earned by working hard skipping through Chinatown flashing sips and contraband
Bt£ I
A
5 Block
ski p
kung fu {Jims and discount top rich and poor and every extreme in between Chinatown now awaj to upscale queen where the mob don't push and shove and the clothes are shiny black not stoic drab where coffee refills cost a buck and t-shiri vendors down from "citf got paper permits to appease policemen where onlf one language is spoken and no merchant would dream of lowering a price on fashion elite's attempt at alternative that strip of pavement the media loves the place to lie seen if pu can cough up the cover
25
IffllBBlalBBImlan
hH^^^H^^^^^^H^H^^^^I^^^HHI^^^HI^H^^H^^^H^H^H^^^^H^H^^BHMH^^^^B^H^Ri
HHHHIHBBHHHHHnUHHMMaMKiPi iaaEKSlEB^EatalMgiiffliffiSM^^^EMMBjaam"1^'^^^!^1 Y°u
I^HiHHIHHRHHiHllHHHHSH i^^^»BBB^KiEI"^'*%ffl|^l^m^^^^EM§|™i'E8|El^^l|^ good ^HHHIHHH|^HHHHIHBH|^B^H||i
Hj^MJBmiKEEB8MJBa^KSaiili&EfflpaBoBj^^3^^!8Sj^M until the answer arrives. But first tell me, what are you doing here? You don't know why either, do ya'? Do you think the answers will be different since we're different people? Do you think they'll arrive at the same time? Do you have an opinion? I figured as much. OK, let's be quiet now. Do you have a watch? It seems we've been here quite a long time. Well, a medium length of time then, OK? Are you always so difficult to get along with? It's no wonder I found ya' sitting here all by yourself. What are you doing anyways? No need to take that tone of voice. Practising patience. Looks to me more like you're practising some kind of weird religious ritual, know what I mean? Sure ya' do, you just want to see how much I've figured ya' out, don't ya'? Well I ain't gunna let you inside my head. I'm just gunna cross my legs like you and stay quiet as ya' please. Must you make that noise? That moaning, hissing noise. Yes, of course I can. See the ears? What do ya' mean you're blind? You don't look blind to me. Are you saying you can't tell me how many fingers I'm holding up? How do I know you aren't lying? Aaahhh! There, ya' jumped. Tell me you didn't see that karate kick coming. Right. And you expect me to believe that? Why must you lie? If you want to
26
make that noise make that noise. All I asked was if you had to make that noise. Answer yes or answer no. Oh, never mind. I'm going to be quiet now even if you won't. Did you hear that? Shh. There, that. What do ya' mean I'm nuts? I am not. I actually heard something. There. Did you hear it that time? Look, I'm just trying to help. Haven't you noticed we're in this together? Then why don't you leave? Well, I can see; do you want me to leave? Right. You're just saying that. If you really wanted me to leave you would've brought it up first. This is just another ploy to get me off guard so ya' can get into my head, isn't it? Well too bad, mister deaf, blind, liar man. I ain't no dummy. I know when to stay quiet. If I go to sleep are you gunna attack me? Ya' still expect me to believe that? Well, there's all kinds of truth now, isn't there? Can you just answer the question? Did I ask for a philosophical lecture? Logic aside, most people won't kill ya' if they say they won't. I just know, alright? So now you're admitting you lied about your eyes? Please, make up your mind or... look, just do me a favour and answer the question. Yes or no, will you kill me if I go to sleep? I don't know why I even try. Can you give me one good reason why I should keep on trying to carry on a simple conversation with you? I didn't think so. That's it, that's it. Kill me if ya' want to. I don't care. I'm just gunna shut my mouth and stay quiet until I fall asleep. Hey, where'd ya' go? Well, wherever you are — nice knowing ya'.
IB
the street gets light, the building stays dark, all the watgr ifries tfs a SJmt of Ww$pap# blows down the street, dirt settles against the curb, the buldirtg stays 4ark, iU$ tfud-a&ernoon now. the silence is not a quiet, the silence is not a hush,the sflersee Is an absence of noise, it is everywhere, it is in everything. inside the ^uile^ig fh§ %Af Is State, irt$kle the building is a machine, the machine is made of subatomic energy, it is bigger than my hand, it is smaller than my body, it is dark.
TODAY
YESTERDAY WAS ONCE A TOMORROW/TOMORROW WILL BE A TODAY the street is light, the building is dark, the eyes of the sleeping child open, the child is awake, the child feels it is alone, the machine and the child are one and the same, the child is insane, the machine screams.
YESTERDAY WAS ONCE A TOMORROW/TOMORROW WILL BE A TODAY the scream moves down the street, the scream changes the silence, it is an announcement, it is a noise. soon it will be everywhere, soon it will be in everything, rain will fall through it. dirt wiH vibrate in its path, newspapers will carry articles explaining it.
THE STREET GETS DARK/THE BUILDING LIGHT
Pallet "Player
29
i went to tKe mall saw summer clotHes for sale notking fit found in a garbage, bin a winter jacket stained witK blood wearing it now \\e.v-e. in tkis club i look good.
rainbow Ife was st&eti&g to rain so I squeezed into a doorway join cog. the girl who squatted there* She said her name . was* SaiB&c-w, £hat was the colour of her dreaded hatr, Thtf i& doors down from the bank* she sat staring at the curb., watJhlng shoes .and boots, dress pants and stockinged legs, , leader cases, jewelled hands, watches bought in BurOpe., „ , Wlsl ting her feet were not m rippedt her jeans so tired, her f ace. so brMsed from a fight lasfejalgfel. She sa!4 ,her name was Eainbow, A^a^dboa-rd box on the &a#ememt s a fe r inches from he* kaees asferng for a (patter or dollar coin. ,Shajaaid Jpr name,was Rainbow. Fifteen years old* Hot!eligible foi?J&e;welfa:i?e roll. Amnaway* .. .no <&ildpan's Aid, She said her name, was Rainbow, Ages old, ..No i&de, A mnasray wttihjao place to.s*a^r, We sat, bod a chat^ sk&c&i my last tau?ee smokes., , spoke about the haeat, the cost of being meat, . the .streets that ar« never clean sad whai it mea&s. , to JSoJtfw life while clutching the Mf&'by blade „ tosfe^d of handle, Bhe said he? name was Ra.in.bow, Rainbow , h$.c, a sejf-made tatloo caa her anMe «nr a greeny-blue out line $£ a flower. Its empty face staring up.
I Mssing with her whole body a kiss that lias hunger
•iaaiiaa i see a crucifix expression of agony no bliss
wrists and ankles pinned to wood blood seeping jtrom the wounds electric guitars
ice-picks sitens somewhere !a snowplmtgh scrapes the street as the flash of an arc leaps from the rail hef hunger is real need sucking me close i^e^r t%wiod cj$ase ruhJb^?; i^own the platform hear the shuffj^ pi others aaove iorward to llie edge listen for the signal announcing the train ^^fin^eyeg "^ her need is heat
THOUGHTS THREE THROUGH SEVEN and the laughter falls Ms falls with the crashing of glass liquor bottles breaking diluted dreams lost in white noise distortion we spoke of an artist tired and near fifty a portrait of ourselves when the laughter hits blood-soaked pavement too easily washed clean
iam in a room of tough people learning to feel sitting between a conscience and fear hearing the cry of a child opening his mouth
i am asking myself questions i do not want to answer i am answering i did not want to ask
32
questions
there are three hundred thousand five flies buzzing in my room three hundred thousand five flies forced from the sewers into the heat seeking the darkness of the basement i rent
will anyone think to remember, say that's the cemetery i was there at the funeral laughter was still pouring from his eyes
the wires have slipped enough to make the current intermittent the overhead lights flicker like ideas just before i sleep the wires have slipped the dreams are quiet hibernating
inside my head the hope
33
softness hours after jou have gone to sleey i crawl Killer the covers into your hat listen tc your even fatnth let mj hand touch jour heast it is after two lefore three in four short hours i mil make jou ten ten witk honcj ad hanej on toast toast made from the head jou brought as a gift
There is a wall on Qerrard near Bay painted like a hyper-neon EKQ and hundreds pass it twice, four times a day on their way from the work-a-day to a bench on a train to a cafe to a club to a restaurant to work again to work again and again passing by and between burnt-knuckle sausage vendors, by and between red lights turning green, by and between structures and systems designed to remain unseen; when alone looking at the pavement or perhaps their shoes, but when in pairs blah-babbling gossip concerning co-workers or printed on the pages of national newspapers and i like to just sit here on the soft grass by the sidewalk feeling its coolness press between my bare toes so different from the warmth radiating from the sun and i like hearing bits and parts of their transient conversations, like watching their clothes crease and uncrease as they rush along the street, like knowing the wall saying: beeb... beeb... beeb... beeb... is there for me to look at
1
whenever i wish.
Far ting me man at me oar watche* nit lace tkrougk a cloud ol *moke. it* ckape mat ckanged over me decade*, it* won got tkick. it* eye* receded, ke tell* tke tar tender to clean me mirror kekind me kottle*. tell* me kartender to draw him another drart. promise* reward in me lorm ol cam. hi* beer arrive*, ke swallows *low. me mirror If wiped wim a greacy clom. a woman enter* and *it* Leride aim. $ne pull* a cigarette from hit pack, exnaling *mohe *ne *ay* Kello, now ya doing, dadt it i* early evening on a tue*day nignt. the room i* quiet and ni« tnougnt* are ftili. me per*on me *ee* if not wno ne i*.
m«re are to many preacher* falliing all over nil* town mod don t know Ike language mey cpeak
when *he was born ckampagne wa* poured, ke «pla«ked some on ker lorokead, ki*ced it Lack and christened her hi* fpecial •tar. a* *he grew ker ligkt got dim. tke living «k« did, ke stopped applauding, tke card* *ke lent got lo*t, rorgotten.
tke koute
race. *ke i* tempted to ttay and kuy a drink.
when vision get* a fuzzy edge, linger lip* turn numb every word teem* to warn: run or thool a gun
Mayuko Death in the head and expecting it to spread to the body which shakes with a mirthless laugh while tears stain the lingerie she wore on her wedding night a short time ago her family stood l>y her side loved her for the child she is letting go the person she most wants to hold close throughout this night of exile alone she stands the fall.
37
last breath madness e.e.c. — u.s.a. Cheap items - dollar daze t.v. news — propaganda
elusive truth - all-new mandate sanctioned life — borders locked battleships and warbirds talk economics — ITlOriGy power madness burning, madness bright last breath fflcl.CI.nGSS, madness i witness tonight
m
black-out hours — feartllJ- quiet shooting stars - f lllOrGSCent murder daylight fire fight — death in black-white phosphorus kill — chemical sin babies Wail — mothers moan
bacterial munitions cl'C'CcLC.rC the bones genetic testing — poison gases refugee StatUS
madness burning, madness bright last JD]TG9.t..n. madness, madness i witness tonight martial youth — friSIlQly fire dogma SO-1.0.1.61" — fragging fame geo-politic bureaucratic game secret-service diplomat button pushing — legal traps widows Ciry — kids survive planet-crrppling
genocide
madness burning', madness bright last breath madness, madness i witness witness tonight
m
He was halfway down the aisle, walking toward me and watching the top row of items, i passed him, a shape, a form he did not want to collide with. She entered the aisle pushing the cart, stopped three steps in, bent down to compare prices on cans of soup. They were a couple shopping late at night. They already had easily sixty dollars worth of groceries piled high. I passed behind her and their cart; on the child seat I saw lettuce, eggs, a wallet. Without breaking stride or even the swinging motion of my arms, I picked up the wallet and continued forward. I don't know why I took it, cannot say there was a motive, an idea inspiring the action. 1 simply did it. Responded to a situation. Took advantage of a moment. Stole from two people who, along with serendipity, gave me the option. I felt good as I exited the aisle, turned the corner. Having seen the young woman enter the previous aisle, I knew they would next turn up the aisle I was now walking down. I placed the wallet on the floor in the middle of the aisle in front of a display advertising a popular breakfast cereal. Again, 1 did this without changing my pace, though it did require me to stoop down as I walked. When I reached the end of the aisle,
40
the couple together rounded the corner. From their happy expressions as I smiled and said hello, I knew they were completely ignorant of my little game. ! quickly walked up the aisle from which they'd come, the aisle where 1 first entered their lives. When I passed the man the first time, I had noticed that the bottom shelf directly opposite where I'd placed the wallet was where the large boxes of laundry soap sat. 1 had also made a note of the fact that half the shelf was empty in such a way that I could crawl behind the forward most boxes and be completely hidden from view. So, like an eight-year-old bored of following my mother up and down aisles through a grocery store, 1 scrambled into the temporary cave. Seconds after I pressed my ear against the thin sheet of metal separating the back of the shelves, I was rewarded with a high voice exclaiming, "Honey, a wallet." This was followed by the man wond e r i n g aloud, "Maybe it belongs to that guy we just passed." "Maybe," the woman agreed. Then, "Quick, see if there's any money." He discovered it was hers and they did not say anything more.
41
Your 3:57 Media Flash rumour of intelligent extraterrestrial life-forms dwelling beneath the polar cap has been categorically denied by every scientific and military agency that reported communication with said life-forms... you now have the right to commit suicide without a doctor's consent; please make provisions for disposal of your remains... today the sky is zero point one three percent darker, but cloudless, so sunscreen one-oh-two point five must be applied... tomorrow's expected rain may melt skin and breathing has been clinically proven a major cause of heart disease... if you plan to be above ground for more than three minutes your departure time must be logged with the proper authorities twenty-four hours in advance... within the next seventy-six minutes parliament will announce that "illegal use prohibited" must be written on all government issue paraphernalia... next week's Insider's Report will list one-litre bottles of oxygen for sale with every purchase of fresh-frozen rehydrated meat... ten full minutes of laser therapy should kill all cancers in a healthy human body and computer-simulated encounters are the only one hundred percent safe way to enjoy orgasms with a partner... remember: automatic guns, automatic rifles, automatic cannons, grenades, chemical repellents, cattle prods rated for more than two thousand volts and all chained weapons are only to be used in designated areas... to learn how you can lead a happy, and spiritually fulfilling life call this easy-to-dial twenty-six digit number - if busy keep trying... hassle-free new and improved customized drugs can now be purchased by special delivery registered mail - one of our friendly lab technicians is waiting to assist you... the Cockroaches take the division finals sixteen to twelve over the much-favoured Satellites and Gladiator Janie Dolinski set a new world record on the extended obstacle course... tomorrow's prime-time television events can be previewed for just twenty-six dollars plus sector sales tax where applicable... when ordering services by touch-tone phone please have your credit card number ready and remove all colour contact lenses prior to retina identification verification... the next hour is the beginning of the rest of your day - say a silent prayer to the god of your choice.
- 42 -
Bamfefer — a name: one who cannot be ellited without hurt. Bamber —'"a game: one- m which all' placers- hop up -a«d dow« u«til pernw nstitly'crippled* Barber •**• a bruised &inse|'as seeisf thfWgh-the Sflpog. — a colour u$ed t& paint the b£ds ofthefk)Qrt — a S(?und'i heafas i get excited by the score.
Bamber bamber is a he has hair all has a dream he
twelve-year-old painted purple plans to kill for so i shy away
bamber is already knows he has hair cut has fast pistol
just so tall how to ball hard and jagged loaded ready so i shy away
bamber is the he likes to rap thinks he's jell-o
pretend to hide
kid next door likes to worm thinks he's sperm so i shy away
bamber and i under the slide then bit
pretend to hide
pretend to hide
kissed and kissed we touched then pinched then pissed
so now i've died and been reborn
h He was out there on the lawn with his gun in his jeans calling me calling me to come out and play We were eight years old. He was drunk in a park puking his guts calling me calling me to help him continue to play. We had made it all the way to fifteen. He was one of the thousands screaming down the street and rolling the cars calling me calling me to say: this is real play. We had hit twenty-one in one piece. He is dressed in a suit bought for this occasion he cannot call me call me to play. I will be twenty-six in a week.
We cut short the life of these vibrant blood orchids artificially keep them lovely with chemically treated water and take them to the hospital as a symbol of health, representation of life. Everyone says we are kind. 45
It was a warm day with clouds sliding
lavalamp style across the sky. We
thes Squirrel & the Girl watched two silent planes drag expanding white trails across one another's paths.
then, snuggling close, returned our attention to the street. In a short while rushhour traffic would hide the cafe patio on
the other side; impatient tempers would pierce the cacophony of too many motor-
ized vehicles with screeching tires and angry horns. Already the occasional commutes raced past, determined to beat his peers to the eight lanes of asphalt engineered for high-speed escape to suburbia.
J pointed out a squirrel filling his cheeks 1 1 1 1 1 6 §1^^ I l l l l i l l l i
:s:::; :' ' '::r Sx;:::;;|;:;|||||;||||||||||||||||:' . - ' • ; ||||ff||||||||f| $eif-CQrt|^^f^^^^P^^^^| Illllll' !efta:;;i!rtt;:;of kappmm <pas
A few minutes later the firls parents paid their bill and took her away into the ll|;;&;^; da>*kn;ess of tlie ctr^.^^l^-^^uim!" s||||l ^lll^^^llljifs^ail^.took^axl^w^^tuck ;l||||||p||gi;|;te;i !|||:;waIk,;. fwned..anti da^(«^-into i;|||::ii|||| ::;^S?yfe^!y
i'nv^wl w&|;^|||||x^^|;|^|ifi^;i;
a dark blue k-car careende around the corner, You leapt from my arms about to shput, only to give a standing ovation to |||l||^ll;lllliilli|lp/W(?
THE DAILY NEWS I flip open the paper, glance at the meat of the day and think it's all just sunshine without showers: deodorant on unwashed bodies.
48
titrw«p8ple in the iMld anymore just persons medias has become the plural for medium medium is no longer applicalile in popular circles
i r i i i i i i i i e
ihaveonlpouiuiokeup i have only noui uioke up
i Mi up. Illngttsteof blood running down my throat i choked Stiftf fell the blood run douin mij face both mij nostrils ' pliirj fort ^squeezed my nose bent mil head betuieen mi| tip ponied one tuio three four and so forth and so on aiUltamapp to tuio hundred and thirtij-eight sat up straight felt the blood continue douin mq face inaveonlqnoujuioheup i nave onlq noiu uiolie up lirt m mm or women anqmore tlieii have all been changed to tnifeltfJ females theq have no last names some are Elite Mine are beautiful all of them are attractive i have onlqnoui moke up inaveonlpOHkeup \ opi cold i am standing in front of mq full-length miffflf the blood has not begun to sloiu itflouisand flows mm the scars all douin mq chest into mq closely, filBtipuirichair onto mq cock onto mi| balls onto the carpet further douin
i am naked
i have only noiu moke up iteonlpoiinuodeup i am feadiifot3 horror-film screen test i am ready nom to do mpwHisticbest i am ready readq to memorize the pnpffeK? i am readq to be datum readq to be data i am ready i am readq i am ready
Til
The killing Afcge ighfetervous al uittmifordble iihis fdy, § is Irug-i gling to raise his voice enough to be heard by the one person who, on this; occasion, might have the patience to listen to what he has to say. Looking left, looking right, his head turning with the effort, he stutters, "You look lovely." With one hand on her thigh and the other cupping his face, she smiles a smile of pity, replies, "You're sweet." Then she stands and leaves the room. Visibly beginning to quiver, he memorizes her departing figure, wishes he had his gun and, at the same time, wishes he could inspire her to let him hold her close for even half a minute. About to retreat out the side exit into the garden, he starts to turn just as she sticks her head back through the door, saying, "Come on, I know a place where we can be alone." It was quick and it was intense and it was over as abruptly as it had begun. They are in the cold, dusty basement between two stacks of cardboard cartons containing assorted bathroom supplies. He is naked and she is half-dressed with her blouse pulled open and her parities in her hand. She had defined the terms of their intimacy, directed its execution and, now finished, is ready to move on. Tucking her underwear into her purse, she says, "See ya." And leaves him lying on the stone, alone, memorizing her departing figure.
His arm is numb and his shoulder sore. There is a blistering indentation on his left index finger from gripping his pen too tight. He joined the International Pen-Pal Association in his sophomore year at high school. Over the years he'd been paired with many different people. Some wrote sporadically, but most not at all; he assumed this was because his first letter demonstrated him to be too inferior for
50
the other to condescend to his level. Nonetheless, he always sent a second letter, sometimes with an apology, but not once had this inspired any of them to return his correspondence. Though he felt he should have reported these people to the I.P.P.A. as bad members, whenever asked why he was requesting a new pen-pal so soon he claimed the individual in question, while sharing similar interests, held views he did not find engaging or noteworthy enough to capture his imagination. The woman he'd been writing every second week for the past three years had never told him her age. He did not pry and was grateful for any personal information she volunteered. He was quite candid in his letters, writing whatever flew into his head without consideration or censor. So relieved to be able to communicate unimpeded by his speech, he filled page after page with ideas and feelings he wasn't even aware he possessed until he committed them to paper. His faceless confidant knew him better than anyone in the world, even better than his brother knew him when he was alive. She never requested a face-to-face meeting and because of this he sometimes could imagine himself considering her a friend.
He is passing an old man dressed in clothes shabby with forty years' wear. Despite the mid-afternoon heat the man is wearing a heavy fedora, wool pants and a jacket. The street is crowded with people anxious to be where they are going. Only he and the old man seem to be taking their time, moving slowly, backs slightly stooped, faces reflecting the sidewalk. Both have a gait that is almost a shuffle, fingers that curl of their own accord, A siren can be
51
heard retreating into the distance. Stepping to the curb to avoid colliding with a stout young woman, he turns and sees the old man stop, pull himself straight and face the street. He starts when the man opens his mouth revealing his few crooked teeth and lets go a torrent of obscenities accented with spit and a fist punching the air. The man's eyes push forward and up out of their sockets as he stamps his foot and increases his volume. His face becomes flushed and the tendons beneath the folds of flesh covering his throat stand out. Nearly everyone ignores the old man and, after a few minutes, his slouch returns and, silent, he continues
on his way.
The boy who works the front desk comes back to his station and tells him he is working too slowly. The boy is self-righteous and tells him scornfully that orders are piling up and that if he were doing his job correctly everything would run smoothly. Faced with so much anger from someone less than half his age, he doesn't know what to say. This further frustrates the boy so, not wanting to cause him to suffer, he nods to the floor and promises to speed up, do better. The boy seems satisfied and returns to the desk to process more incoming orders. He chooses to work alone on the ancient machine at the very back of the shop. Rarely is he disturbed as he sets up the machine and works through the never-ending pile of business reports, essays and manuscripts that people need copied for reasons he will never know. Tonight there are an unusual number of orders requiring him to manually feed each individual sheet into the slot on the top of the
52
machine. He doesn't mind, it gives him something to do other than watch copies get collated as they slide out from under the hot roller which burns the carbon onto the white or yellow or red or whatever colour paper the client requested. He is good at his job. He rarely makes mistakes and of all the people employed by the company, he is responsible for the least number of wasted copies. Still, the boy is right — if he were doing his job correctly everything would run smoothly.
There is a news item he hears everyone speaking about. They call it a tragedy, a shame, a fact of life. There was an accident in which three people were killed and hundreds injured, some quite seriously. Apparently two lovers had a quarrel that escalated into violence. They were driving home from a party when they stopped at a gas station attached to a mall crowded with people exiting a movie. The couple were shouting loud enough for many of the movie-goers to clearly hear threats exchanged. A gun was pulled and fired. The bullet hit the gas pump and caused the underground tank to explode, sending debris into the air and a searing wave of heat through the crowd. The one who pulled the gun was a ward of the state and seeing a court-appointed psychiatrist. The crown holds that its limited resources make it impossible to properly monitor all of its wards and that it is up to the individual to seek assistance if they are having difficulty. The psychiatrist claims his client showed no sign of a violent disposition, but had missed their previous two scheduled appointments. This, he says, was uncharacteristic behaviour and, while he
53
had made a note of it, his policy, a policy which is justified by his success, has always been never to chase after a client. The parents of the deceased shooter had neither seen nor spoken with their child in over a decade and refused to speak with reporters or give a statement of any kind beyond an explanation stressing their estrangement and regret.
He is eleven years old, playing with his sister, who is eight. Their parents are not awake, so they are pillow fighting. The TV is on and music from the radio mixes with cartoon sound effects as the two devices compete for attention. She is small and quick and constantly talking, taunting. Stronger, he is careful not to hurt her with each awkward blow he manages to land. She has no illusions as to the damage she can do to her brother and, like her voice, her swings connect with stinging accuracy. His favourite game is one they call 'trap-house'. For trap-house they alternate taking turns in a crouched position on hands and knees close to the ground. The other builds walls and a ceiling around the prostrate form with the huge throw pillows furnishing their recreation room. When the house is complete, the builder lies over it, spreading arms and legs wide to cover as much area as possible. Then, shouting "Go!" squeezes tight as the one inside tries to break free. When he is the captive, he holds perfectly still, barely breathing for fear of upsetting the house. He anticipates how she will place each wall, which pillow she will hold back for the ceiling. As he feels her weight crush down on him, he sighs as if the expulsion of air will
54
render him less significant, smaller and easier for her to contain. Usually, he will not move when she shouts. Again and again she will yell for him to go. Ignoring the repeated command, he waits for her frustration to grow into a rage, waits for her legs to squeeze tighter, waits until she sneaks her hands through the gaps in the pillows to pinch his face. Then, tired from the exertion of staying still with her weight and strength and anger pushing down on him, he more often than not is unable to escape.
Every Friday night he takes the beretta out of its holster, breaks it down, polishes and oils each of its deadly parts. He is playing with the bullets he was given when he received the gun. The gun had belonged to his brother and was the only thing he left him when he died. As he loads the bullets back into the gun, he is tempted to fire it. Just once he wants to pull the trigger, feel it kick back in hand, hear the explosion, know the power. He opens the living-room window and looks at the brick wall of the building on the other side of the alley. Holding the gun with both hands, he sights along the barrel at a slightly discoloured brick. He dismisses the fact that the noise may bring the police. Gunfire is heard all the time in this part of the city and he is only going to fire it once and put it away. If anyone comes to his door to investigate the noise, they will never suspect him of owning a gun, much less firing it. His hands steady, his arms relaxed, he increases the pressure of his finger on the trigger. He feels it begin to give and stops.
55
p
o
r
t
r
a
i
t
how
slow
the
paint
dries
how
slow
the
paint
dries
how
slow
the
paint
dries
on
a
canvas
tough past
fibre
to
last
time when rendered
how as
spun
enough the
is
of
i
slow
the
apply
layer
this
life
complete
paint upon
dries layer
to create an image i will recognize as
alive
on
a
ready
to
gallery
appear wall
how
slow
the
paint
dries
how
slow
the
paint
dries
yet always too soon my pallette is stone hard shades i cannot use and i must reblend my colours to carry on living illustrating
myself
5
6
don't love me. I'll send you down. not gently like the dandelion seed i blew into the breeze, knowing your fingers would still hold the stem long after i finished. don't love me. I'll send you down. take you climbing at three a.m. then swing you out on vertigo ledge. watch you hold your head and scream, and scream.
lea
scream at the riveted cast-iron cabinet, scream for the being locked inside. don't love me. it will tear me apart like an ulcer that will not stop bleeding, don't love me. i'm too frightened to show you the pigment that colours my eyes, don't love me. don't love me. love me. it will send me down, down to a place where the air is thick slow-drying concrete.
Tears i'm all alone with the sirens and the stained white walls alone with the drone and the groam and the headless coin crying
crying thioiij| the phone, the iiMe^roiJ cables
heariJlfoiir voice closer.
58
Xy/ith PQti^r>rp>
I have reached down the throat of howling mouth and scraped the flesh of a thousand memories locked there, awaiting a program capable of revealing their hidden wisdom, joyous and horrific past. I have sucked bile from under fingernail, swallowed truth, swallowed lie and still must face ignorance and need each time I draw breath, each time I drink water, each time I find the strength not to scream upon waking from dream. When I said: love — yes, fear threaded itself through the core of my soul, told me to run or stand tall, but gave me no power or chance to decide. Outside, trees die fed on the fluids of poisoned rivers. Outside, the sun burns through holes in the sky. Outside, hitting pavement, a child kills tooth. Again, I extend my hand.
5Q
i am an animal in human drag
the laughter and the lie as they quietly coincide all of the joke couched in the fashion i swallow with pride
i am an animal in human drag
scanned by an electronic eye partially identified listening
still
each moment held
like a syringe above a vein
waiting for the click the trigger the trick there is an absence apparent in all voices that speak
a catalogue of my movements in a computer in a vault survival of the fittest funkiest most vicious she asked me to dance in a playground of land-mines her feet are now phantoms only alive in her head the feathers i wear the colour of her hair
he told me to kiss the earth where he shit claimed it was all i deserved to be fed
he now has a tube to his mouth and a tube down his leg
60
Survival of
waiting for the click the trigger trick
the
through sophisticated analysis my position can be mapped or my speed ascertained
but intention remains hidden in the flesh of my
brain
when their orbits decay the satellites sing information relayed while spinning in flame survival of the fittest funkiest most vicious i wear the robes of a judge the shoes of a whore the mask of a surgeon the pants of a priest
the helmet of a soldier and the smile of a banker i am sitting in a cinema watching a horror the feature i paid for was rated and destroyed when i stand up my seat will snap out of existence
6l
the Fittest
On family trips I countedroadkifC— five to Tickering, tweCve on seven to Qhucester, onfijt 1&i$& to 'Burlington, family trips to ttisit relatives,
Road
0£%a&flSf teas & pm&dcfoifies, $*f sfart
by map&lfl to to^eH te^fifelt... Wft^&tring roadktft, tfdnlqng: relatives, parents, sisters.
Kill
<M& $$ftn$K-<jMl Jimwttiadf&m $®$tother's weddina. -&4 ^ , •• i- v s ^ * dp , >A * * * Cf f
^rilH^^j^fe,
ff
tj^ed^^uti^mdonfygot
static. 1fidlka"vj(ih. the'caBle'dttfieBac^oftfie
set,
accidentally pricked my finger — there was no Blood.
The colourful dust of butterfly wingsd fades at the base of long straight pins.
63
drought the fan pivots on its pedestal blades rotating, breath, left
to right, then back and repeat, again* and again, i cannot remember ever seein§ it still, always it turns the air to wind, a temporary storm without panic and rain, paift the feeling it summons to th$ ceiling of th$ shellerj've been b«ildlfi9* and ?*iwlfcH«g, the V8ie$ 1mm the rmdio speaking thro^gr* statics* $&y!n;f a record num^^r of psopls ^Mff^fing ^«al stroke > !*osf*ftals $tm$®$, «i «|H>H«^ of w$t#r now in^vitabl^x i notioe ttis $o^«d pf ih0 f^^ % {oMdier • when It turns its f&c« in my directicm* ^ali^lie^ tti^ mytii it mafat* •^•cllff^f««ic^.
' my cup does not ai5y longf^r r«n ov«r*
: it "Is; lying on ttrlsid^Jp&s&b'> my head on the hardwood
f loar; wfif ff; tf»&$f -b,0tiy ft-H, When i slid from your seat i
^tetM frf^lf f^p9atlve,, w^«t if th
gp fmmsy t standing on tfc» sun *» a rod of red ptasm> a^i organic con
nurture * flower or suck dry ihe »41ix b© or ba wt as whim $$$« fit,
^> , fain^rayS ; lying qMi^f on a fu^&reil pyre, waiting lor fimraa to ^onsnime — ^KC^S-« tto Mm«! 1 wgt$ giv«iiK to0k< «pil back Hk«- a shlid ^w^if^wiftg oogtia<5. g> f««j^fay 3 fhrottgh' Infinity, ftii ar^ %xtreflies from an- «r*r*am0
', msarn Ihis !$ t&4 nature of ih& %m fcnetw$erh tt*fc t»!&sk and the white of tfce syiafcof thai can never axptein, my vision of tha cup lot|fi§ it» fee««> th«-^ esilis^drymfeii^ /'' caving In, th* bre«ih,df llw b^ad©« passing a^jft, «m}4^aiii* «*ow mjfffct* , i aijrstw%lce»|it,ls Nit^* moonrftH*ctsftt*&t, siftpty of pro^^s«, I rise from my l>e>d of splint^rJfii H^'tory, h^w «i&j*y fe»t hay« trampled wfi*r« i
i*i«i? ,9t«mi>N
many wise in love,, fuoky enough,, skipped throygh a life not passing thi$ way? not knowing they coufd. I if a wittjoytsftould.
i put on
my clothes, cotton shadows artd f«tfi&d cracked i$aih$f, walk o«t to the strsat. briak an^l «0torete. no trees/no teep^^s, buiidirtg and buiid* ings, an,amazing maze, i b«H«v«!i must run* lock th« a
my hair is sleek, my face 1$ shaved, my teeth gleam bright when i open my face, i do not remember creating this self, so touch myself to prove i ant real, recognize euphoria ** cold and complete.
gripping my skin, surge quickly fcegins. quickly ends* orgasm indycgd/semeft pro* dtioed. i licit otea.fi my lirt$$n- start M$k *$ IN« tfAffc, my I private dahlaK
The Light Stays On
"It's not a common name," 1 say, The switch for the light at the front of the house is always flipped up, the on position. There's a motion detector on the fixture so the light doesn't burn all the time. It only comes on (is supposed to come on) when someone moves inside its range. The woman who lives upstairs bought it about a year ago. Besides the fact that she, Margot, the woman who lives upstairs, has told me so, I have seen the light burn through the dark on two occasions. Once when I was coming home later than normal — around six fifty-two a.m. — just as she was leaving for work. It was raining so it was that much darker than normal. I was coming up the walk from the street when she stepped out of the doorway, and the light, a yellow haze through the drizzle grey, went on. I felt a growl in my throat wanting to turn into a bark. "Hi," she smiled from under her bright-peach-coloured umbrella. I grunted a reply. I did not smile. The second time 1 saw the light lit was just after dusk. It was
the hottest night of the summer. I was almost comfortable. There was a firm, loud, too-polite rap on the door. "Who are you?" I called as I looked out of the window at the fully lit porch. A rich male voice answered. It was a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses. They always travel in pairs. I quickly yanked off my clothes, opened the door. The light hit me from tip to tail, made my pale skin glow. There was a pause. A stutter. A stammer. A silent consideration and a quick decision. I was alone when the light went out. I'm almost completely nocturnal, only see the sun once or twice a month. The detector was designed for people like me. I'm out almost every night. I leave when it's dark and return while it's still dark and every time am mocked by a light that has decided I do not exist. Both going and coming I must slot my key into the lock in total darkness.
"What name?" he asks. m
No one was around to hear me, even though there were a lot of people nearby and a lot more people rushing past in their sealed, air-conditioned cars, but none of them were near enough. I was walking along at that semi-dead part of the afternoon — after the kids are home from school but before rush hour is in full, maddening motion. I was passing a tired bungalow with a dirt yard sprouting dull stones that spilled onto the sidewalk. The front window didn't have any blinds or curtains. It didn't need them. It was completely filled by a sign listing the services offered by the occupants.
251- H4E3A2L5 Inner Child Work Shiatsu Meditation Habit Breaking Acu-Pressure Soul Surgery Addiction Counselling by appointment only
Soul Surgery! I audibly "oooooohhhhh"ed. Soul Surgery! By appointment only! Imagine the call: "Hello. I want my soul surgically fixed. Do I get to keep the leftover bits in a jar? Will there be a big scar?" "Hello. I want my soul surgically snipped. A bit off the top and all the split ends. Will it be covered by insurance? Do you take Visa? American Express?"
"My name," I answer. "Man, what a night. It is hot," said the guy in purple shorts. We were both kinda hanging between three large groups of people outside of a warehouse on College Street. Sometime around two or two-thirty or three or maybe even three-thirty (it's hard to say with these things) there was supposed to be a happening, a rave-like party. Someone told me I should come, had left a message on my machine. I couldn't remember who it was, but they were very excited about the whole thing, claimed I just had to be there. Said that even if I never got anywhere else in my entire life, I just had to be there. So there I was. Alone. Alone as usual, wishing I could remember who told me to come. I was kinda worried that I might be at the wrong place (that seems to happen to me quite a lot) and, though it seemed like something was going to happen, it might not have been the right something — the something I just couldn't miss. After all, I had yet to meet anyone I knew and wasn't too sure I would. "Man, what a night. It is hot." "It is?" I asked. "Yeah, man, it is." He noticed how I was dressed. "Shit, man, you're wearing a leather jacket!" "I'm cold," I said and held out my hand for him to shake, to feel how cold I was. "Heroin?" he asked, reluctantly letting his sweaty hand slide from mine. "Malnutrition," I said. "Oh," he said and drifted away, looking for someone who saw the temperature the same way he did. Someone he could talk to and/or score off of/with.
m
I know it's hot. I'm cold, but I know it's hot. I don't feel it, don't show it, but do know it. I don't know if I'm cold because of malnutrition. It could be something else, almost anything else. I just said malnutrition. It seemed like the proper kind of warpedness to say to him. If he'd said something equally weird back I'd have known we could get along. I'm not surprised he didn't. I mean, he was dressed kinda funky, but his style had a contrived feel about it, like there was a designer standing not far behind him making sure he appeared just so, so as to attract just the right amount of attention at just the right moments with exactly the right people.
"What's your name.7"
Q
"It's not a common name," I say. "What name?" he asks. "My name," I answers. "What's your name?" "Pierce." "Pierce?" he asks. "Pierce," I spell it, "P-I-E-R-C-E. Pierce." "As in Hawkeye?" He raises an eyebrow and grins. "Well, I've got good eyes, yes," I say, "but I can't see what that's got to do with my name." "Hawkeye Pierce," he says, as if that should mean something. "Hawkeye Pierce?" I ask. "M*A*S*H's main man," he explains in that should-meansomething tone. "Mash?" I ask. "M*A*S*H," he says. "As in mish?" I matched his eyebrow and grin. We are one for one on both counts. "No," he raises me a grin, "but I rarely do." "Mishmash," I ask, "or get pierced by hawk eyes?" "Neither, neither," he starts to fold. "They are not things that happen. M*A*S*H was a TV show eleven seasons in a row. Hawkeye was in every episode."
He antes up with a deep breath. I start again. "Pierce was the main character?" I ask. "Yes," he answers. "And he had normal human eyes?" I ask. "Yes," he answers again and explains, "but it wasn't his first name." "Pierce is mine," I say. "Not a common name," he grins. "True," I grin. "Neither is Hawkeye," he grins again. "Well, there was one in Last of the Mohicans. Any relation?" I ask. "As a matter of fact..." "Fact?" my eyebrow sees his grin. "Fiction," he corrects, "his father loved it." "What about yours?" An unexpected card. "My father?" he asks. "Yes, your father," I confirm. "Never knew him," he says. "Me neither," I agree. "Yours or mine?" he asks. "Either that I know of," I answer. "Makes us kinda like brothers," he says. "I guess it does," I agree after considering the idea for size. "My name's Everett," he says. "Not a common name," I say and raise him an eyebrow, but not a grin.
Later. Much later. Hours and hours later. After sleep. After coffee. After more coffee. During our fourth coffee with another pot starting to drip, I am ready to listen. Everett says he still needs more coffee. We met years ago after a party. The sun was coming up and my face was wet from the morning dew. The grass I was lying in seemed huge, giant, gargantuan, but small when I imagined it
m
m
was a very densely packed, bright — super bright — green forest. I liked the way it looked. Also I was pretty sure lifting my head would hurt a great deal and didn't think I was in any condition to handle a hangover. I shut one eye and saw more of the sky. Bright — super bright — blue. I opened my eye and shut the other: cool green, now only bright and more densely forestlike; an ant slowly crawling close, clumps of dark, boulder-like dirt. With both eyes I blinked. It was like taking a picture. I blinked again, wondered if I had any film left in the camera. Not too far away, but too far to reach, I could see brown. A friendly, familiar brown. A brown I was sure I should know. A brown that seemed to hold a promise. "It's a bottle," a voice said. "I think you're right," I said. "An empty bottle," the voice said. "I think you're right," I said. "It's worth a dime," the voice said. "I think you're right," I said. "I wish it was full," the voice said. "Me too," I said. The bottle no longer held its promise, but I was happy I had a voice to talk with. It is nice to chat with a voice early in the day before you consider trying to move. I especially liked this voice. Besides the fact that we had things in common and saw the world in a similar way, it was deep. It had a bit of a rasp it used on sharper edges, an average volume, but seemed to whisper its way into my head from some place beyond the bottle. I asked it if it thought we should get up, should see if there were more bottles near by. It said we probably should but suggested we sleep for a while longer. I closed my eyes and dreamed. When I opened my eyes, a shadow was blocking the sun. I was grateful. My head hurt. The shadow was speaking but I couldn't understand what it was saying. It was the same voice. It was raspier than earlier, but the same voice. I was glad it had a shadow. I didn't like the idea of it being on its own, alone. After a moment I realized it was telling me its name was
Everett. I said, "Hi, Everett." Everett returned my "hi" and explained that the two men, uniforms, cops standing watching us, wanted us to get up. I got up, realized my body hurt. We collected the empty beer bottles lying around the area and walked out of the park to a restaurant that had a buck-and-a-quarter bottomless cup of coffee. Half the second pot of coffee is in our stomachs. The caffeine surfing through our blood shoots to every corner of our waking frames, rattles the nerve sites that refuse to function without incentive. Everett is almost ready to talk. Jody had left the message on my machine. Jody had sent Everett. Jody had promised Everett she would make sure I came. It was all very Jody. She is manipulative in a friendly sort of way. I know her from drug rehab. She knows Everett from A.A. I just learned that .Everett knows Jody. How he found out she knew me I may never know; he didn't say. Everett danced up to me near the end of the rave. She never did. Later we were walking along College Street hoping to catch an all-night bus north to my house. We were talking about the guy in purple shorts, joking about the possible dullness of his sex life. I was about to suggest he could benefit from a trip to a soul surgeon. On a lamppost there was a brave orange, eight and a half by eleven, photocopied poster which read: 251-HEAL; 251-H-EA-L; 251-4325. Everett and I both stopped. We both pointed. I turned my head to see him turning his head. I said, "I passed that place," as he said, "I tried that place." Soul Surgery hadn't worked. Habit Breaking hadn't worked. Meditation hurt his back. Acu-Pressure felt good but didn't make much difference. Their Addiction Counselling was all wrapped up in smurfy new age terminology and he didn't dare to try the Inner Child Work they said he desperately needed. "I had to accept that I had to do it myself," he said, "I had to get help, but had to do it myself. The help can't change the self.
m
Only the self can bring itself back." He rubbed his chin as we continued to walk, "1 know you know all this. I'm glad I figured it out." "I'm glad, too."
We eat some scrambled eggs on toast. Put on a third pot of coffee and go into the room where 1 work. Everett is impressed. He never really believed it was possible to make a living by stuffing envelopes. He'd read the classifieds urging people to send a self-addressed stamped envelope for information. He'd even considered spending a stamp but never did. I tell him he will never have to. I have more than enough work for both of us. Everett says thanks; says we can talk while we work. Then he goes to borrow some tools so he can fix the light at the front of the house.
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Other titles from Insomniac Press: What Passes for Love: a collection of short stories by Stan Rogal What Passes for Love is Rogal's first short story collection. Within these 10 stories Rogal explores the dynamics of male/female relationships, both literally and figuratively. He writes about betrayal, obsession, loss of identity and the manifold demarcations of love. Rogal's writing is stark and understated while bringing together intricate and unique plots. The Kafkaesque plot twists of his stories take the reader on a wondrous, and sometimes weird, journey of the relationship. 51/4" x 8 1/4" • 144 pages • trade paperback • isbn 1-895837-34-0 • $14.99 Bootlegging Apples on the Road to Redemption by Mary Elizabeth Grace This is Grace's first collection of poetry. It is an exploration of the collective self, about all of us trying to find peace; this is a collection of poetry about searching for the truth of one's story and how it is never heard or told, it is only experienced. It is the second story, our attempts with words to express the sounds and images of the soul. Her writing is soulful, intricate and lyrical. The book comes with a companion CD of music/poetry compositions which are included in the book. 51/4" x 8 1/4" • 80 pages • trade paperback with cd • isbn 1-895837-30-8 • $21.99 The Last Word: an insomniac anthology of Canadian poetry edited by michael holmes The Last Word is a snapshot of the next generation of Canadian poets, the poets who will be taught in schools — voices reflecting the '90s and a new type of writing sensibility. The anthology brings together 51 poets from across Canada, reaching into different regional, ethnic, sexual and social groups. This varied and volatile collection pushes the notion of an anthology to its limits, like a startling Polaroid. Proceeds from the sale of The Last Word will go to Frontier College, in support of literacy programs across Canada. 5 1/4" x 8 1/4" • 168 pages • trade paperback • isbn 1-895837-32-4 • $16.99 Desire High Heels Red Wine Timothy Archer, Sky Gilbert, Sonja Mills and Margaret Webb Sweet, seductive, dark and illegal; this is Desire, High Heels, Red Wine, a collection by four gay and lesbian writers. The writing ranges from the abrasive comedy of Sonja Mills to the lyrical and insightful poetry of Margaret Webb,
from the campy dialogue of Sky Gilbert to the finely crafted short stories of Timothy Archer. Their writings depict dark, abrasive places populated by bitch divas, leather-clad bodies, and an intuitive sense of sexuality and gender. The writers' works are brought together in an elaborate and striking design by three young designers. 51/4" x 8 1/4" • 96 pages • trade paperback • isbn 1-895837-26-X • $22.99 Beds & Shotguns Diana Fitzgerald Bryden, Paul Howell McCafferty, Tricia Postle and Death Waits Beds & Shotguns is a metaphor for the extremes of love. It is also a collection by four emerging poets who write about the gamut of experiences between these opposites from romantic to obsessive, fantastic to possessive. These poems and stories capture love in its broadest meanings and are set against a dynamic, lyrical landscape. 51/4" x 8 1/4" • 96 pages • trade paperback • isbn 1-895837-28-6 • $13.99 Playing in the Asphalt Garden Phlip Arima, Jill Battson, Tatiana Freire-Lizama and Stan Rogal This book features new Canadian urban writers, who express the urban experience — not the city of buildings and streets, but as a concentration of human experience, where a rapid and voluminous exchange of ideas, messages, power and beliefs takes place. 5 3/4" x 9" • 128 pages • trade paperback • isbn 1-895837-20-0 • $14.99 Mad Angels and Amphetamines Nik Beat, Mary Elizabeth Grace, Noah Leznoff and Matthew Remski A collection by four emerging Canadian writers and three graphic designers. In this book, design is an integral part of the prose and poetry. Each writer collaborated with a designer so that the graphic design is an interpretation of the writer's works. Nik Beat's lyrical and unpretentious poetry; Noah Leznoff's darkly humorous prose and narrative poetic cycles; Mary Elizabeth Grace's Celtic dialogues and mystical images; and Matthew Remski's medieval symbols and surrealistic style of story; this is the mixture of styles that weave together in Mad Angels and Amphetamines. 6" x 9" • 96 pages • trade paperback • isbn 1-895837-14-6 • $12.95
Insomniac Press • 378 Delaware Ave. • Toronto, Ontario, Canada • M6H 2T8 phone: (416) 536-4308 • fax: (416) 588-4198
