Parish 2

The block erupts. Crackheads scatter like late night roaches when the kitchen light goes on – minus the insects’ natural cunning. Some bump into each other and stumble to the pavement. Others stand still and mumble, their fried nervous systems overwhelmed by activity. 

The IROC crew evaporates like wisps of smoke into doorways and windows and alleys. The stoop, save for some Chick O Stick wrappers and a discarded diaper, is empty. 

For a moment I stand rooted, as stunned as the crackheads whose heads are being cracked by roid-crazy cops. 

Then I spot him. One of the Gazelle kids. Jetting across the street.

I follow. 

He hurdles a wall of trash bags along the curb as I trail close behind, nearly spilling out on the landing. Shocks shoot through the soles of my combat boots up into my knees. The pain must be affecting my vision because he seems headed directly into a garage door. 

I’m about to pull a 180 right back into the pummeling arms of the law when Gazelle slips into a sliver of darkness between the garage and the rundown building beside it. With no other choice, I do the same. 

I’ve never felt so lucky to be undernourished. It’s a tight squeeze, even for my boney ass. I follow him to a slice of light up ahead and find myself in a trash strewn courtyard. 

Before me towers the backside of a crumbling apartment building. A few yards away, my unwilling guide smirks slyly as he brushes off his windbreaker. Then he turns and races across the courtyard toward an open entrance to the building.       

I’m puzzled by his urgency. There’s clearly no chance of the cops spotting us back here. But I soon see why he needs a running start. Beside the entrance, nested in a mound of newspaper, is a pit bull nursing her litter. A chain extends from her neck to the nearby gate, where one of her pups lies dead in a cloud of flies. 

The pit springs and snaps, just missing Gazelle as he dashes to the safety of the building. It seems the chain is just long enough to allow the dog to maul potential trespassers. It’s possible to slip past her, but don’t trip or misjudge the distance. Your balls just might be pureed in the Jaws of Death.      

Safe in the doorway, Gazelle smirks slyly one last time, then vanishes. 

The pit, having missed her chance with him, now directs all her snarling rage my way. Every striated muscle of her thin frame works against the chain, driven by a single purpose: to kill me. 

I weigh my options. To either side of me stands a chain link fence, ten feet tall and topped with razor wire. Behind me, beyond the garage, the Tuesday-night sweep is in full swing. 

I have no options. 

The pit has worked herself into a frenzy: barking, frothing, snapping at air. I scan the ground, noting objects in my path – a toaster oven, a melted comb, a web of metal hangers. It occurs to me that the building’s occupants simply toss their junk out their windows. 

I gaze upward, just in time. From a fourth floor window comes a barrage of D-batteries. They hit the pavement with a dense CLACK, CLACK, CLACK. My moment of peaceful contemplation is over. 

Another wave of batteries lands around me as I launch myself toward the doorway – and the vicious pit. Her barking now is high pitched, hysterical. Her body coils tightly in anticipation. 

I hear the jaws snap, feel the hot breath on my forearm as I race past. CLACK, CLACK, go the batteries against the pavement. Except one, which produces a slightly deeper, softer sound. 

Upon entering the doorway I turn briefly to see the dog lying unconscious on her side, one hind leg spasming slightly. A lone Duracell, the one that made contact with her skull, rolls slowly toward the hungry litter.  

Parish 1

The spot is swarming. Two busy dealers buzz about, working the stream of cars that flows slowly down the block. They use hand signals, whistle in code, retrieve inventory from the wheel well of a parked car.

Wonder if I made a mistake coming here. Long-haired in camouflage and combat boots. You might say I’m out of place in Sundown Park. To them I’m a devil worshipper, a transvestite. Or worst of all – a cop. 

I can turn back, forget the whole thing. But I’ve trooped too far to return empty handed. Besides, I told Frankie I’d take care of this….    

Green light. 

Four felons surround a red IROC-Z parked at the curb. Skinny and shirtless in two-tone Lees, the loudest of the crew squats to appraise the rims. His boy lights a Newport, licks his thumb and wipes a smudge from his otherwise gleaming shell-tops. Two others, both in green windbreakers and oversized Gazelles, pass a quart between them, quietly assessing the vehicle.

I press the folded five-spot in my palm.        

On the nearby stoop a party is in progress. Chico Stix, Coco Rico, a 100-watt battleship blasting beats. A chubby cretin in black mesh tank top springs down the steps of the old brownstone and halts before the car, stroking his mustache.

Begin the long walk up 39th Street. 

Dusk falls like an itchy blanket. I sidestep a gutted garbage bag, dance over some chicken bones and approach the crew. 

The shirtless one struts toward me. 

“What you need?”

“Got mesc?”  

“Strictly crack.” 

A cicada rattles. I stand dumbly, my plans dashed. 

“Wait up,” he says, calling out to the stoop crowd. I envision myself beaten down and robbed, run out of the neighborhood. 

As I’m preparing for flight a hulking, jiggling mass of a woman descends the steps of the brownstone. There’s an infant in her arms. 

“Red Star,” she coos, still in baby-talk mode. “Two for five.”

Our exchange is swift. I pass her the folded five-spot, and from within the child’s swaddling her dimpled hand magically appears, two tiny red cylinders in the open palm. I store the hits in the cellophane of my Marlboro box. 

Then I hear the screeching brakes.  

An unmarked Crown Vic and two squad cars. 

Suburbanists

We left our crumbling tower 

to sift microbes from the moat.

“Do you know this song?” 

It’s a scar, I thought. 

She lit the shrubs on fire and 

a corpse came crawling out. 

He was tarred and feathered. 

I was scarred and weathered. 

“Where’s your darling wife?”  

“In the oven with the roast.” 

We laughed, and I no longer felt alone.

The Hollow Detective

A child's voice behind the wall, fear-pitched and pleading. But I soon spot the ploy--a mischief spirit, sent to vex my sleeping mind! Devil howls and echoes. Wake to "Winter Gloom," by Anxiety Ensemble of Monmouth County.

Palm to wall--semblance confirmed--scramble kitchen drawers for evidence: secret spoons, clandestine knives. Pacing like Rilke's Panther on speed. Dressers undressed. Cabinets gutted like crime scenes. Nervously searching--for what? 

Face slapped by moonlight as streets diverge in German Expressionism. Interrogate a starling in the supermarket. What do you want? Broccoli, yogurt, eggs? There's a section for greeting cards and a section for toys--this place never closes.          

Vacant eyes--searching, searching. One wayward wraith plants its seed, and I chase coordinates into the void. The universe is subtext, a legend of coded clues. You don't know me, and I don't know you. Perhaps this is the sum of my longing. 

Join Us

This dirty world   

Full of microbes

They'll eat you inside out

Gleefully multiply

In your guts brain liver 

They'll rape your intestines

Desecrate your lungs

Don't you long for a clean place?

Be vigilant at work

He still holds a grudge

Be on guard in bed

Fell plans are in motion  

Gentle sheep among wolves

Don't you want to feel safe again?

We'll protect you

Build a wall around you

We'll shield your soul 

Shepherds of the Meek

Guardians of the Blind

True Divine Intention 

Now cast off your husk

Jettison flesh and bone

We've been bound so long

No more shadow clinging  

Join us in the circle

Initiate Ascension

Drink, drink, my love 

Eulogy for a Flea

You sucked my blood

and left me 

with a few diseases.

I try not to think about it.

A Portrait of the Author with a Mannequin

It started like a movie, with restaurants and trees and holidays. 
We fit well together, like conversations on the Rhine 
or braided leather belts from the 1970s. 

Then came Madagascar. 

Your face was a train without destination. 
I was no saint, either, chipping away 
at the cracks on the soles of your feet. 

But how were we to know?

 
"You've grown your bangs," I said, as the flowers 
on your dress renewed in infinite subscription
and your smile shone like a contract 
etched in January snow.