candyland

What would life be like
if fairy tales weren't
just fairy tales?
Just dreams?

i wish; still i wish,
even though i dream in:
not even enough color for white:
black and grey.

i wish...

i lived

another's dream.

You run from what you don't understand. You ignore what you don't want to admit. You scream at what scares you the most. You push away the things you need because it hurts too much to remember. You get angry to prevent resolution to problems you don't want to acknowledge.

Friends in Strange Places

Had a beer with Death the other day; nice guy but pretty over-rated. He’s got a serious inadequacy complex; I mean come on, how would you feel if you were responsible for every death from the beginning of time till the end? And don’t even THINK about mentioning Final Destination, he hates those movies. Spent six months in therapy after the first one came out, he was sure he was screwed. I think he’s just depressed because he’s got a bum rap.

But Death’s an alright guy overall, and he did introduced me to some of his friends.

The Four Horsemen were pretty cool but they’re WAY too into “the biz” for most folks. Plus they don’t like to talk, I guess they’re just too focused on the end of the world and all those shenannigans, not really a group for casual conversation.

And unless you’ve got a special place in your heart for chaos, destruction, and general fucking mayhem I highly suggest you DO NOT buy the Angel of Death any shots; you’d be surprised how much gets destroyed when you have an angry, drunk, nearly all-powerful spirit of vengeance on your hands. And he gets seriously pissed about little things, like how most people get him confused with Death. Goes on and on about how he’s got so much more training, he’s a specialist, a surgeon, a delicate instrument of vengeance only used in extreme circumstances…blah blah blah.

Still, he’d probably be pretty cool, if you can ever get him past Sodom and Gomorra; it’s weird, you’d think killing the firstborn of entire nation would be his proudest moment but no, a couple drinks and it’s all “I fried this guy on the chamber pot” and “I pulled the roof off this brothel so they’d see it coming; dude, you should’ve seen their faces it was awesome!”

I mean come on, yeah fiery wrath and the end of everything is pretty freakin’ awesome but the Angel of Death’s only got so many stories, The Four Horsemen don’t really speak anything past monosyllables, and Death’s always depressed. Once you know one spirit of vengeance or destruction, you know ‘em all. Just don’t tell Death I said that, I really can’t take any more of his sob-stories.

Girl

“Girl”

The grave has now ascended

All over New York the lights turn on

As the dead and their memories walk back into our lives.

It’s populated by anything old, broken and used up; crackpipes, needles, and old rubber surgical tubing: all the necessary paraphernalia of the junkie lifestyle. And the children of this long-evaporated cesspool crawl about in their desiccated crabshell skin; and we send money to starving children in the Third-World countries. Burning trash and old tires demarcates this little forced unemployment camp, for all the cast-off detritus who can’t be counted as human any more. A beetle reaches for her leg, a leg that would make a scarecrow look healthy, and climbs right up. I let it get to the top, up the leg and across, just below a knee that isn’t quite covered by a dress. Girl’s eyes don’t focus on the same thing at the same time, if they focus at all. I look at the sockets holding them in her skull, all hollow-black and sunk back. Girl’s got a face that’s been lit on fire and put out with a wet chain. Twice. Or at least, that’s what she looks like; Girl’s seen the worst then taken a few more steps down, below the bottom. Covered in scratches, needle scars, burns, it’s four or five lifetimes of dedicated abuse collected in a little girl’s soul and shining out through her skin. The neck stops short at a moldy piece of rough weave from the bottom of a carpet, the stuff that’s used to attach the soft fibers so richwhitemen, richblackmen, someonelse, pickyourcolorandsex, won’t scuff their precious Armani shoes.

I must admit, it’s partly through morbid fascination and jealousy that I’ve nursed her. Not really, but that’s the answer I’m comfortable with; I don’t know why I helped Girl, at the beginning. I know why I do it now; she helps me stay sane and chases away some of the shadows. But I want to know what’s next; she’ll be done with this farce and KNOW. She’ll know what’s next while I’m still waiting for the courage to find out. But she’s held together this long, her beaten body and mind, even if YOU can’t see through that scarred surface, underneath she’s golden.

NBC NYC, Morning Edition: August ‘94

“Wall Street welcomes Mr. Timothy Hopkins today, the new up-and-comer from Harvard Business School. Mr. Hopkins specializes in financial…”

I wonder what people see when they look at me? Actually, scratch that; I used to care, ask myself all the time what others saw in my face. But I’m just a wino that’s seen the bottom of any container in a liquor store and still can’t find IT. And don’t ask what IT is; I don’t know and if I did, who gives a shit anyway? IT is just an excuse. To run. To ignore. I’m hiding from whatever I ran from in the first place; I can’t remember now, but I care about what I ran from just about as much as I care about what I’m looking for.

“Whadyoo say?” she asks me.

“I don’t know; do I ever say anything you want to hear, Girl?”

“Yeah, shometimes.”

“You want to go find some more shade, Girl?” I worry about her; this sun’s moving her toward that last little push over the edge. That thought’s the only thing to keep me sober, the Devil knows how long.

“Yeah, we prolly should. Thanksh, Hopshkinsh.”

Her voice is milkshake thick with the crack her mother was on the whole pregnancy, right past when she dropped Girl at the State Home, all newbloody and sopping wet, wrapped in newspaper. I wasn’t there but I’ll give you 3:1 that bitch thought about how to sell Girl for more crack, coke, ice, china, some bleeding chemical bliss that was worth more than her own flesh and blood.

“Why ‘ou laughin’?” slurs Girl.

“Because I’m too tired to cry.” I chuckle; God, I crack myself up sometimes. I’m sitting here, I can’t remember the last time I moved to take care of myself, and I’m self-righteous enough to criticize someone else for being an addict. At least she’s on real drugs. I wonder how my son’s doing? I never thought I’d actually lose it all; sitting in my office, I’d imagine cold floors, stale hotdog buns, and digging through the trash behind Wendy’s for food. I’ve got to watch myself; I think I’ve burned too many brain cells. I don’t know when I’m speaking aloud or keeping to myself, anymore. I don’t want to scare Girl; she’s in bad shape, and I might be horrid but I’ve still got part of a soul left. I think I do anyway; all I know is that every time she cries, I freeze. She moves and I’m happy, she coughs and I’m clinically dead until she’s done.

NBC NYC Morning Edition: January ‘97

“In the financial sector, one of the largest telecommunications mergers in history is rumored to be signed today, headed up by Mr. Hopkins, the Vice-President of…”

“Enough of this; why do even bother thinking? Why are you thinking at all? Won’t do any good, won’t do her any good, won’t change a damn thing. Just shut up.” I hope she didn’t hear that.

“Huh?” she mumbles, grease straightened hair poking her in those bloodshot baby blues; she’s half-alseep, luckily. She hates it when I talk like that, how it’s all going straight down the toilet; we’re just the lucky one’s who’ll already be here, and the rest of humanity’s just playing catch-up. I think she’s got the right idea; sleep’s almost as good as E&J, when I can get one or the other without being chased by cops or dreams.

NBC NYC Morning Edition: May ‘99

“Government financial investigations, ongoing for the past eight months, should be concluded within the week. One of the men rumored to up for indictment include billionaire Timothy Hopkins, former Vice-President of one of the largest telecommunications firms in the world, and founder of the fastest-growing biotech company in the nation…”

“Wish I had a shower and clean clothes; the orphanage was better than this. I’m dying.” Girl thinks to herself. “Wish I’d sound like this when I talk instead of drooling on myself. Damn glue; I can’t even keep things straight in my mind so how the hell am I supposed to get them outta my mouth?” She looks at the drunk beside her, almost asleep, fingers clutching reflexively, always looking for that bottle. Today has been a good day; she woke up, she knew where she was, and she knew who he was.

“Hopkins;” that was his name. He’d been taking care of her who knew how long, she only had memories that didn’t make sense, like a video tape that’s been scraped by needles, cut, and glued back together out of order. All Girl knew was that he’d kept her alive a little bit longer; she wasn’t sure how much of a favor that was, but she’d take it. And she’d started remembering more; not of her past, just of what’d happened since he’d started taking care of her.

She did remember when they met; she woke up, covered in a couple layers of cardboard, and he was passed out drunk, vomit smeared all over his chest. She thought he was pedophile; not that it mattered, she couldn’t really move anyway. He got up eventually, looked at her, confused, and staggered away. The next thing she remembered, he was picking her up and she was panicking. She tried to struggle but she was so weak he didn’t noticed. But he just carried her out of the gutter she’d been sitting in and put her down on a pile of cardboard in the shade of a devastated building. And left again. But he came back; who needs a mom when you’ve got a wino to take care of you, right? It started with little things but then he started doing more and more. He made sure she ate, got her out of the rain as much as he could, even tried to wash her hair and face one day, with rainwater he’d collected in an old hubcap. And he’d started drinking less, too, slowing down at first, then she hadn’t seen him drunk in awhile. A week, maybe? Girl didn’t know who he was, how or when he’d gotten to Winoville, or why he was always with her. All she knew was that, when he was sober, he knew more than anybody she’d ever met, the way he talked. He actually knew what words meant and when to use them. And he took care of her.

“Wonder how he got down here? Wonder what he used to do?” she thinks to herself as she drifts off to sleep.

NBC NYC, Morning Edition: August ‘00

“In a surprising verdict, Mr. Timothy Hopkins was removed from the list of indicted today, in an episode that has commanded vast media coverage, and captured the attention of the nation. Those possibly remaining to be charged are…”

They need to put a sign up, like the one from that old Kurt Russell movie: Welcome To Hell. Clichéd, yes, but true nonetheless; Africa’s not the only place left with rotten bodies in the streets and dying children in the gutter. They need to come down here and take a look around. This was the only place I could find to hide from my own nightmares; I may have it bad, but these people have it worse and they don’t even know it. A kid “playing” with the shiny broken bottles in the garbage; they match her new shiny plastic dress, see? And a dead smile on her jack o’ lantern face, because that’s what normal people do, right? They smile when everything’s hell, grin and bear it, chin up, stiff upper lip, tea and crumpets and the real life never really sucks that bad whatwhat. A little girl, not my Girl, but a girl, she’s sitting bare-assed on the dirt and in the grime, fingering the sharp edges and thinking about what they’d feel like on her wrist. Or someone’s throat, one can’t really be picky. She’s fourteen; little girls aren’t supposed to be the withered old women, are they? Fourteen year old girls should be discovering boys and budding breasts, not heroin and desiccated corpses that masquerade as people.

Like I said, we need a sign; the white collar, blue collar, hell anybody with a collar, drives so fast through the area it’d give a dead cat whiplash because they’re worried about the smell and who gives a shit about the people? One drove by yesterday and almost hit Girl; I’ve never wanted to throw a brick at someone so much in my life

Apathy is the mother of these children and desperation the father. A meth lab’s a real job down here; I can see some rich little punks slowing down in their BMW right up the street. But the labs and the rich kids are getting pushed out by some damn corporate drug ring, shiny science labs and their pretty nurses and office aids and pimped out cars. They want junkies they can boss around, give meth that’s been cut to shit, and kill off when they’ve had a bad day. There goes the economy, right? You’d think people would get angry, do the whole “Where are you, God?” bit, but they don’t; hate is so much easier when you don’t talk. But hey, it’s ok, it’s mutual: everyone in the neighborhood hates God, and God hates them, or so they say so they can make it through another sunrise, sunset, watch the real people drive through as they go about their real lives. And all the while it’s just some fucking circle, white mice screaming on a wheel in their empty heads “waithopepray.” They may lie cold and dead on the floor while they wait for the sun to rise. Walking corpses, more than zombies you see in Hollywood, less than human, wishing for a demons to come and save them from misery because any company’s good company when you’re too dead to touch yourself.

NBC NYC Edition: August ‘00

“In an anticipated but still surprising move, Mr. Timothy Hopkins stepped down as CEO of his Fortune-500 company. His office has declined comment, and has not stated where Mr. Hopkins plans to take his apparently considerable managerial and financial talents…”

It’s finally dark, as I start to wake up; I must have passed out staring at those kids and all the way through them, and I’m sitting caught in another nightmare. I just want to see what’s next because I don’t have the courage to go find out for myself. I can feel the past month of grime and whiskey coating my throat, the dust from rotten bricks clogging my lungs, and I know I’m one of them; I’m part of Winoville, a part of the speed freaks and heroin addicts, and hookers too old to charge anymore but still addicted to the game. People may say it would be better to have no life at all than live this one, (and that’s if they even say anything at all) but at least they don’t have television or news down here. Why should they? Time-Warner doesn’t take meth and a twirl with an old hooker for payments. Finally, I might, almost, just possibly admit that’s what I ran away from. Those staring eyes, the Jumboscreens in the Square, my face a hundred feet in the air and huge. I’ve got to watch myself walk in that courtroom and out again and it’s like I hadn’t been there, like someone else wore my hair, my suit, my face. Until I try to sleep; then I’m there, every time, but it doesn’t end like it did that day; no judge can push me farther than I’ve taken myself. And so I ran; can anyone blame me? Who could be expected to take that, the screaming, block-letter headlines, talk shows that blather all day long, for months, and it’s all about you. The gossip hound down the block might think everyone’s talking about her, but I KNOW everyone’s talking about me. And so I ran, to get away, from the screens and the papers and the money and the pressure; dropped it all and took off, I didn’t care where. But I can still hear those damn headlines, playing back through my brain; I think all that booze has crossed a few neurons up there.

NBC NYC, Evening Edition: August ‘00

“Mr. Timothy Hopkins, the biotech CEO who was recently cleared all implications, has been missing for the past nine days and is presumed dead. His estate will most likely be left to his son…”

I’m groaning as I sit up; where’s my bottle? It’s dark out (why bother with the streetlights here) and my eyes are thick with grit and the stench of my own rotting skin. My fingers start scrambling around me before I even realize what they’re looking for, desperate for that slick plastic and the juice inside. I don’t want to think anymore, I don’t care anymore; I’d almost convinced myself at one point. Almost built up the courage, almost drank enough, killed enough pain and feeling and brain cells to finally do it right. Kill myself and get it over with. But then I stumbled into Girl and I couldn’t, I had to go the other way. I’ve asked myself a thousand times, every day since I met her, and I still don’t have an answer. Maybe I regret it, maybe I don’t, but all I know is that, good or bad, she was at the edge in front of me and refused to jump. And I couldn’t go first, not after I’d seen her. I’d seen all the other dead down here, you can’t miss them, but somehow she was different. And I couldn’t do it, couldn’t walk away from her, and I couldn’t walk away from myself. Even as I realize I don’t have a bottle, haven’t had one forever, I think, my fingers crawl over Girls wrist and stop.

“Girl?” I can’t help it, I’ve got to ask. “Girl, are you awake?” I know the answer before her mouth confirms what her wrist screamed stone-cold. I lean over and wait; fingers on the wrist, hoping for a pulse, I’m desperately trying to feel her breath, see her chest rise in the dim light of burning trash and a lone light down the block. Finally, I’ll admit it; she’s gone, and so am I. I give her one last kiss on the cheek and stand up. “Hope you’re doing well for yourself Girl. And if you won’t hold it against me, I’ll be seeing you. But not too soon.” I whisper to her as I stare down for a few more seconds. I start walking down the road; no reason to bury her body even if I could. And I don’t think she minds that I’m not; I think she’d like to stay out under the stars, she always asked for stories about them. I’m finally ready, again, to try, again. And I know how I’ll do it. I’m walking past the shells of people and buildings and I don’t see any of them. All I can see is Girl’s face; not how she died, but how she should have been. And I promise myself that I’ll walk back in, back into the Life, and I’m not losing this one. Those bastards in their corporate offices will help me; they may not know it yet, but they’ll be happy to give me a hand. I played their games, I sang their tune, and I never went to court; but no one, NO ONE, can match the sentence I gave myself the day I walked out. And it’s time for me to finish it, one way or another; I think I owe Girl that much, at least. After all, she did save my life, even if I didn’t think it was worth saving. And maybe I helped her, too; but all that keeps running through my head is pictures of the money I wasted and threw away. I could have done better with it, could have done more, SHOULD have done more. But if it’s better late than not at all, then I’m going to make a fresh start so it doesn’t turn into never. I don’t have Girl here by my shoulder anymore; she might be by my side, but she’ll come and go, I know she will. She always wanted to run, and I’m sure that’s the first thing she’s doing. “I’ll be seeing you Girl. But not too soon; I’ve got some business to take care of first. Don’t be a stranger, either; you know I’ll need help on this one, so stop in and check up on me.”

NBC NYC, Evening Edition: August ‘03

“On the lighter side, quiet donations from a select group of well-to-do businessmen not previously noted for their generosity have been making an incredible impact with a new charity, largely outside the media spotlight. With a donor list merely half the size of a typical charity but donations far outweighing almost every other charity in the country, it is aimed at helping the homeless and destitute of the city. The founder has remained anonymous throughout the meteoric rise of the fund, and the donors have all remained silent as well. There is no denying, however, the beneficent and forthright nature of the charity, as it has already helped literally thousands in its short existence. While the founder and donors may remain nameless, the charity itself is simply called “Girl”…

sunsets and lullabyes

i feel somethin comin round again
feel the summer's never gonna end
feel someone comin round the bend

all the fears of yester-years
all the cries and all the tears
all the while it's growing near

the sun's too bright to light my mind
people too close for me to hide
and wish for tonight, that i had cried

an i'm tired of all the smoke
the happy little jokes
the smiles light the air
and i'm too tired to care

d.f.d

follow your dreams; embrace your nightmare.

What is the first step we take.
Not the first insult, the first abuse or abuser, but
the first Step.
The first step, the decision. The decision to covet,
to obsess, to Unforgive, to hate and to take.
To take that which is not ours, which is not mine.
What is the first step we take,
the first bridge crossed, when
THEM becomes I becomes WE.
And how do we know it's been crossed.
how do we realize that the ranks are closed.
The group session empathized.
How do we know when the line has been crossed
and our thoughts are no longer our own?

I. March ’98, NYC

Ya get all kinds drivin’ cab here’a Ern, I swear’s.
Ya got’s ya basic drunks, right, you kin catch
A buzz just sittin’ inna cab widdem, all dat
whiskey dey’s sweatin’ out! Den ya gots da groups,
can’t keep dere hands offa each udda! Den ya
gots pissy basta’ds, mopy schmucks, hatein’a world.
And da women, Ern, I tell ya! Dey’da craziest bunchadem all!
You ‘member dat pissy broad, doncha Ern? Da one widda fake
Address from some tool, da one in Winoville, trieda
stiff me ferdda fare’a? Oh yeah, you knows dat bitch!
Ahhh, hell, whaddeva. But ‘ey you ‘member dat’udda’lady
Da udda one widda fake address in Winoville? Da nice one?
Yeah, you ‘member dat udda lady..Whadn’t ‘ah name Nancy?

II. March ’97 NYC

So Ern, dis lady gets inna my cab tonite, I asks ‘ah where’a
She’s goin, an’ she give’s me dis bogus address. So I turns aroun’
An’ I swears I knows ‘ah, but whuddeva. She’s got dis real weird
Look to ‘ah like she’s been runnin’ scared fa too long ‘ah sumetin’.
So’s ‘ah course, I lets ‘ah know, right, bouts da place?
Da look she ‘ad onna face, iddabou’ broada tear’a ta my eye, Ern,
I swear’a. An’ she jus’ says, real quiet-like “Please, I need to see.
My son Sam’s there.” So I takes ‘ah dere, it’s in Winoville,
Nuttin’ere, ah course. An’ she don’t say a word, Ern, I t’ought
She was just gonna break inna liddle pieces. An’ onna way back,
She tells me ‘ow dis kid, Sam, run away a couple months ago,
Tryin’a make it inna “Big Apple,” he said. Bu’ she tells me ‘e’s
Really lookin’ for ‘is pops. Guess da old man kinda went
Nuts from da war, run off or sometin’. Guess da kid was like,
11 or sometin’. So we gets back tadda station an’ I says “’Ey, you
Gotta place ta go, right? Family ‘ah sometin’?” She says yeah, she
Gotta sista’a sometin’. I says ok, we’ll take care ‘ah’yahs, don’ worry
Bout dah fare’a nuttin’. I go an’ get da ticket, put’er onna bus, and I
Says “’Ey, you ev’a get da idea ta come back, you gimme a call.
You gotta ‘ave somebody been born inna City ta find somebody
‘ere.” Wunna if she’s ev’a gonna come back, Ern? I’d prolly pop one
Off inna my noggin, I had ta deal wid da shit she did. Helluva hand
She got dealt Ern, helluva hand.

III. August ’97 NYC

So dis kid comes ta get inna my cab tonite, Ern, an’ I don’t tink anyting
‘bout it den. Clean lookin’ kid, right, just comin’ from some tiny town,
I dunno. But I swears I know dis kid, right, sometin’ ‘bout da
Way ‘e walks, ‘is face ‘ah sometin’, like I seen ‘im when ‘e was little,
Or I seen ‘is pops. So ‘e gets in, tells me ‘is name is Sam, ‘annat jus’
Made it worse! I swear ta ya’s Ern, I knows dis kid, I seen ‘im befor’a!
Anyways, an’ ‘en ‘e asks me if I knows a cheap place ta stay. So’s a course I tell’im bouts dat boardin’ house yer old lady runs, he says sure, he don’t know
Anybody inna City, sounds good. So we’a drivin’, shootin’a shit, whaddeva,
An’ I says “Whaddya doin’ in da Big Apple, kid?” ‘E tells me ‘e’s gonna
Be da next white Louis Armstrong, sometin’ like dat. But dat’s not all,
I can tell; doin’ my job Ern, ya know people, right? So den’e tells me ‘ow
‘e’s gonna look for’is pops too, da old man run off tadda City whenna
kid was little. An’ ‘e’s got dis picta, Army picture, an’ I swear Ern
I seen dat picta’ befor’a, seen dat family befor’a. But it’s da first time inna City for
Da kid Ern, an’ I see so many people I coulda seen ‘is pops too.
Anyway, I dunno why but I drops ‘im off an’ gives ‘im my name,
Case ‘e needs some help ‘ah sometin’, I dunno. I jus’ ‘ope dat kid makes
It alright Ern. I wond’a ‘ow ‘es doin’?

NBC NYC, Morning edition:

“The unidentified body of a young man was found in Times Square this morning, apparently the victim of a mugging. The police claim all his valuables were taken, most likely to pay for drugs. In other news…

IV. August ‘88

So dis guy tonite, ‘e leaves a picta inna back’a my cab tonite, Ern.
Nice Army picta; Wife, Kid, Husband, liddle ting onna back says
“We love you Jim! Nancy and Sam” Dis ‘appy picta,
An’ dis asshole just leaves it in my cab, what da hell!
Anyways, he gets in says ta take ‘im tadda Square. So
I says ‘atssa big place, you gotta address ‘ah sometin’ pal?
‘E says naw, just take ‘im tadda Square, dat’s all. So I says ok
Pal, your money. An’ we’a drvin’ an’ I’m tryin’ ta talk ta dis
Guy, asks ‘im ‘is name ‘e says Will, ‘ah Bill ‘ah sometin’
Like dat. An’ I’m lookin’ at dis guy inna mirror an’ see dis pair a’ eyes.
Ern, I’m telling ya’s you ain’t nev’a seen a pair a eyes like dese!
Crazy eyes, dead eyes, like a fish ‘a sometin’, I dunno. So ’ I says ta
Myself “Self, you bedda watch ya ass wid dis one!”
So we get dere, I leddim out, an’ den I drive away.
An’ dis guy, ‘e just stands dere, like ‘e’s got no place ta go!
I dunno what happened to ‘im den Ern, I just went back
Tadda base, cleaned my cab, an’ found da picta. I dunno
‘bout people like dat Ern, I dunno…

NBC NYC, Morning edition:

“An unidentified man shot himself early this morning in Times Square. The police have ruled it a suicide and have no leads as to the man’s identity. In other news…”