Patrick Fealey's Blog, page 6
February 10, 2013
saturday night
saturday night
there’s an ass bellowing in the town square. some priest gave it the sign of the cross and now it’s got whiplash. i was strolling on water when a fisherman passed me, going up. he walked on invisible stairs toward a dim constellation of soda machines, where an indian sat selling poker chips. he didn’t say hello. gazing upon the mirror poked with nails, a pair of lovers stopped to tell me we all have the same epitaph: dog walker. saturday night went laughing on, like a thing you don’t need, anticipation flushing pores. i dropped into the ocean when i saw i was ahead of myself, wincing at the one thing worse than a scheduled buzz and fuck: sunday.
there’s an ass bellowing in the town square. some priest gave it the sign of the cross and now it’s got whiplash. i was strolling on water when a fisherman passed me, going up. he walked on invisible stairs toward a dim constellation of soda machines, where an indian sat selling poker chips. he didn’t say hello. gazing upon the mirror poked with nails, a pair of lovers stopped to tell me we all have the same epitaph: dog walker. saturday night went laughing on, like a thing you don’t need, anticipation flushing pores. i dropped into the ocean when i saw i was ahead of myself, wincing at the one thing worse than a scheduled buzz and fuck: sunday.
February 8, 2013
young girls
young girls
watching the last day of underwear themes, liberated from the uncertainty of the beautiful virgin in whose pants i found electrical storms and tornadoes. they can make the earth vanish under your feet to a tight-rope where below you can see the stars twinkling spellbound at the idea of one more thing to burn . . . they’re jealous and they tease. they’re fickle and possessive. most virgins are not virgins when you find them, though experience doesn’t mean they’re good at it. but it is not the sex. it is their world, so removed and more alive than my ruins. i feel younger with them, at a price: they are incapable of seeing the best in me and they mistake age for stability and plenty . . what they get is an accelerated lesson on life that youth doesn’t need. standing beside me, they crack, they slice their wrists and wind up in mental hospitals. they die . . young girls walking by on shadows, laughing out their pants, they pass again and again . . . the silhouettes of a type, peddling an illusory blur. no more giving blood to be distracted from my soul.
watching the last day of underwear themes, liberated from the uncertainty of the beautiful virgin in whose pants i found electrical storms and tornadoes. they can make the earth vanish under your feet to a tight-rope where below you can see the stars twinkling spellbound at the idea of one more thing to burn . . . they’re jealous and they tease. they’re fickle and possessive. most virgins are not virgins when you find them, though experience doesn’t mean they’re good at it. but it is not the sex. it is their world, so removed and more alive than my ruins. i feel younger with them, at a price: they are incapable of seeing the best in me and they mistake age for stability and plenty . . what they get is an accelerated lesson on life that youth doesn’t need. standing beside me, they crack, they slice their wrists and wind up in mental hospitals. they die . . young girls walking by on shadows, laughing out their pants, they pass again and again . . . the silhouettes of a type, peddling an illusory blur. no more giving blood to be distracted from my soul.
February 4, 2013
vagabond
vagabond
your face! half concealed by howling hair! you’re the son of the devil! cast out! cain of cains! i knew you were, you told me yourself many times. your skin is pulling you back, your eyes punish your face. your hair jets into a black pause. i had to turn around again and again and look terror in the eyes, forehead white as a candle, sleeping under bridges, holy life running to the sacrifice. shit! you goddamned floating punk! a scene played out, our eyes hold your days. from monstrous nonsense you cut horizons of nightmares and ecstasy infinite. in the silence of your hundred-year scream . . you weren’t from here and you knew it. your face burns through the wax and wind of this wasteland . . no time . . no time . . cold as a reptile.
your face! half concealed by howling hair! you’re the son of the devil! cast out! cain of cains! i knew you were, you told me yourself many times. your skin is pulling you back, your eyes punish your face. your hair jets into a black pause. i had to turn around again and again and look terror in the eyes, forehead white as a candle, sleeping under bridges, holy life running to the sacrifice. shit! you goddamned floating punk! a scene played out, our eyes hold your days. from monstrous nonsense you cut horizons of nightmares and ecstasy infinite. in the silence of your hundred-year scream . . you weren’t from here and you knew it. your face burns through the wax and wind of this wasteland . . no time . . no time . . cold as a reptile.
February 3, 2013
second act
second act
protecting myself from human nature by hiding behind human nature, a full-time gig for those who need to shoot things and fuck like invited rapists, me. a determination to mine this weather of play, a twelve-year-old black boy in a black tee-shirt going down the street on a skateboard in the rain holding a blue and white-striped umbrella over his head. yesterday’s and today’s philosophies are flooding the toilet, our night falls over the aborted attempt until we wake up again to cigarettes and aspirin, thunder in our swollen eyeballs. trees sway, relieved, the steam rises from the street, a coffee and a bird in the bush. of credibility and eloquence, the ones who know are silent, they cannot speak it. language was not forged in that place. language was forged leaving that place . . . and the sun’s fate is known – it will come back until we don’t.
protecting myself from human nature by hiding behind human nature, a full-time gig for those who need to shoot things and fuck like invited rapists, me. a determination to mine this weather of play, a twelve-year-old black boy in a black tee-shirt going down the street on a skateboard in the rain holding a blue and white-striped umbrella over his head. yesterday’s and today’s philosophies are flooding the toilet, our night falls over the aborted attempt until we wake up again to cigarettes and aspirin, thunder in our swollen eyeballs. trees sway, relieved, the steam rises from the street, a coffee and a bird in the bush. of credibility and eloquence, the ones who know are silent, they cannot speak it. language was not forged in that place. language was forged leaving that place . . . and the sun’s fate is known – it will come back until we don’t.
February 1, 2013
women with men
women with men
a baby cries over it’s ass while a mother cries over the man. mothers, i pity your trade. you’re waist-deep in the future, the selfish selfless one who condemns herself to duty and shame. they call it love, the most involuntary prostration, but i’d call your presence propaganda. and the willful cock with its thirsty head, range infinite, a mindless opportunist. i’d call its presence presence. love and lust tangle and tongues burn, teeth crack, and the guts scream until another pot of boiling water. dig in, boys. dig in, men boys. oil those breach loaders and forget those sad letters . . nice-looking kid, but i’m not really interested in your mistakes.
a baby cries over it’s ass while a mother cries over the man. mothers, i pity your trade. you’re waist-deep in the future, the selfish selfless one who condemns herself to duty and shame. they call it love, the most involuntary prostration, but i’d call your presence propaganda. and the willful cock with its thirsty head, range infinite, a mindless opportunist. i’d call its presence presence. love and lust tangle and tongues burn, teeth crack, and the guts scream until another pot of boiling water. dig in, boys. dig in, men boys. oil those breach loaders and forget those sad letters . . nice-looking kid, but i’m not really interested in your mistakes.
January 31, 2013
nothing
nothing
i don’t want to be nothing. i don’t want to sell. are you a winner, or are you yourself? nothing ever happens here and she says that’s good. “‘cause whenever something happens, it’s bad.” i might want to kill someone. but there’s no one worth it. i’m not afraid of police. i’m afraid of another me. i’m thinking about what i’m not thinking about. i’m thinking about what you’re thinking. you must be thinking . . about nothing. i’m not as sad as i sound. i’m allergic to the rugs. the rain was nice to look at, for the first five days. all the windows here are cracked. they’ve seen way too much. i didn’t ask for their help, for these compound visions. i’m not as mad as they say, it’s just my irish eyes. oh, shit, the power just went out. is it noon or midnight?
i don’t want to be nothing. i don’t want to sell. are you a winner, or are you yourself? nothing ever happens here and she says that’s good. “‘cause whenever something happens, it’s bad.” i might want to kill someone. but there’s no one worth it. i’m not afraid of police. i’m afraid of another me. i’m thinking about what i’m not thinking about. i’m thinking about what you’re thinking. you must be thinking . . about nothing. i’m not as sad as i sound. i’m allergic to the rugs. the rain was nice to look at, for the first five days. all the windows here are cracked. they’ve seen way too much. i didn’t ask for their help, for these compound visions. i’m not as mad as they say, it’s just my irish eyes. oh, shit, the power just went out. is it noon or midnight?
January 30, 2013
laughing with the crows
laughing with the crows
the seagull struggled feebly on it’s back as the crows stood over it pecking at its eyes and anus. a flock of gulls stood by in the wet sand and watched white feathers in the air, more compelling than seaweed. i sat on the seawall and watched. i might have stopped them, but that would have been interfering with nature and death. (me and my feelings.) i told myself: the gull is sick and weak and will die anyhow. there is nothing to do and the crows need to eat. (survival of the fittest.) while the crows pulled the eyes and living intestines out of that gull, the others watched, thinking: more fish for us. i went home feeling lousy about a legitimate end. i told myself if it was a man, i would have helped. if it was a man, i would have done something. me and my feelings. survival of the fittest. they don’t go together.
the seagull struggled feebly on it’s back as the crows stood over it pecking at its eyes and anus. a flock of gulls stood by in the wet sand and watched white feathers in the air, more compelling than seaweed. i sat on the seawall and watched. i might have stopped them, but that would have been interfering with nature and death. (me and my feelings.) i told myself: the gull is sick and weak and will die anyhow. there is nothing to do and the crows need to eat. (survival of the fittest.) while the crows pulled the eyes and living intestines out of that gull, the others watched, thinking: more fish for us. i went home feeling lousy about a legitimate end. i told myself if it was a man, i would have helped. if it was a man, i would have done something. me and my feelings. survival of the fittest. they don’t go together.
January 28, 2013
rising sun
rising sun
the further we drove, the more diminished the landscape. the trees thinned to one per mile. riverbeds were dusty flat as ice and the grass yellow and brittle. on one hillside stood a collection of long white buildings and cottages laid out in rows. a chain-link perimeter, the look of an abandoned military post. “that’s where we put the japs during the war,” bobo said. he sounded indignant. about the internment or pearl harbor i couldn’t tell. maybe he was indignant for all parties at once. small white cottages like catskill summer rentals, decked out for a xenophobic holiday. “the japs did want to take over the world,” bobo said. “yep.” “did you know the japs are the number one buyers of elephant ivory?” “they also won’t stop killing whales.” “size matters.” “yep.” “t’ain’t much that’ll rile me so much as killing fat mammals.” “my grandfather had his own private sniper on saipan,” i said. “i always thought owning a hundred guns was the right number for a guy with his temper and paranoia living in new york city. he went to saint vincent’s for a heart attack and they found his pocket full of 30-06 ammo.”
the further we drove, the more diminished the landscape. the trees thinned to one per mile. riverbeds were dusty flat as ice and the grass yellow and brittle. on one hillside stood a collection of long white buildings and cottages laid out in rows. a chain-link perimeter, the look of an abandoned military post. “that’s where we put the japs during the war,” bobo said. he sounded indignant. about the internment or pearl harbor i couldn’t tell. maybe he was indignant for all parties at once. small white cottages like catskill summer rentals, decked out for a xenophobic holiday. “the japs did want to take over the world,” bobo said. “yep.” “did you know the japs are the number one buyers of elephant ivory?” “they also won’t stop killing whales.” “size matters.” “yep.” “t’ain’t much that’ll rile me so much as killing fat mammals.” “my grandfather had his own private sniper on saipan,” i said. “i always thought owning a hundred guns was the right number for a guy with his temper and paranoia living in new york city. he went to saint vincent’s for a heart attack and they found his pocket full of 30-06 ammo.”
January 27, 2013
later
later
seen enough: dreams slayed by lies in the autumn and smog. my skull aches: the hardened faces of cowards. cornered: stupidity left and right. tasted enough: i dove in with love and without. had enough: the loss of life. i must go find my brothers and sisters.
seen enough: dreams slayed by lies in the autumn and smog. my skull aches: the hardened faces of cowards. cornered: stupidity left and right. tasted enough: i dove in with love and without. had enough: the loss of life. i must go find my brothers and sisters.
January 26, 2013
escape
11. escape
i’m busting out the window to restore the peace. i’m busting out the window to restore my circulation. i’m busting out the window to let you know. warned enough. if my efforts are a headache, i’m going for blood . . vic pulled a gun on a cop. he went to prison. vic and i were fucking the same girl. we each knew there was someone else, but we didn’t know whom until she insisted on introducing us. vic and i talked so long about painting, barbara fell asleep. we became friends and drinking buddies and barbara became a hooker. but vic represented an extreme i did not believe in – time wasted in prison and rehab and on life-support, 3,000 used rigs in his bathroom like trophies or mementos. but we were able to hustle more cash together. when you are a junkie you mostly encounter assholes, some bright, most whining and self-centered, who are such greedy and resourceful machines they could have their own private jets. vic was a writer and painter, educated and older than me. he had worked as an archaeologist until some doctors and lawyers and a judge said he was insane. once insane, he was no longer qualified to dig holes into the earth . . the rush is a quickie: it has its stunning place at the front. but i dig the hours of low sound waves and curtained light: i like being a root. you are almost not alive and you can watch. if you push it, this death turns to dying, which puts you in bed for the worst three days of your life. if you push it further, dying turns back to dead, but this dead looks like gray meat on the slab . . rehab egoists profit off the predicament, as do badges, doctors, handcuff-makers, judges, and coroners, glad to tell you your lover had symmetrical breasts and chipped nail polish . . at the peurto ricans’, we went around back. the routine was you banged on the steel bulkhead. they lived in a fucking bunker. someone would yell from inside, “who is it?” vic yelled “zeek!” in the window of the first floor a couple of kids shook their heads at us. they knew what was going on. we weren’t the only ones. this place was hot. sometimes they shot at us with toy guns. it wouldn’t be long before the peurto ricans were raided by real guns. meanwhile, vic and i were standing in the snow, breathing clouds, waiting and waiting for our woman. he leaned over and banged on the bulkhead again. a few minutes and there was the sound of the thing being unlocked and it was pushed open and angelina was there, telling us to “shut the fuck up.” angelina was the matron of the bunker and she was in command of the heroin, which she dispensed much more quickly than she answered her bulkhead. angelina was small, in her 40’s, and had graduated from kennedy plaza long ago. she lived with her man and another girl in her 20’s in this dark unfinished basement clogged with furniture and divided by curtains. the floor was concrete, the ceiling exposed beams. they had a tv and a couch to the right, a dining room table straight ahead, where she let us shoot up, and a bedroom to the left, blocked off by a curtain. she kept the dope in there and we were never welcomed in there. down a narrow hall to the left was a makeshift bathroom with a bucket of water and no running water in the sink. the toilet was as clogged as our american dreams. angelina asked us what we wanted and took $50. this time we brought the dope into the bathroom and used the top of the sink. we had brought our own water. we decided to split a bag to start because angelina’s dope had killed sandra a week ago and put vic in the hospital. vic said the dope looked like the same dope. the shit hit harder than anything i’d had all year in any amount. by the time i was out to the dining room table to retrieve my coat, i didn’t know if i was walking straight. we split out the bulkhead and walked for the bus, bright and stupefied. it’s good, it’s good. we drank a couple beers at the bus stop and scratched. on the bus back to newport we agreed we would save the other bag for tomorrow because we were so fucking high it’d be a waste to shoot it. i nodded for most of the hour home. back at the hotel, we stopped by john’s for a quick visit. john later said we were aglow, and he, on methadone, was jealous. we split john’s place, each for our own rooms. i told vic i’d be right over. i dropped my coat and backpack off at my place and headed to vic’s. as i came into his room, he said, “i just did half a shot. yours is on the table.” i eyed the amber barrel and thought, “no fucking way. i’m so high already. why did he do that?” i sat down to roll a cigarette. before i opened the can of tobacco, vic fell over and the blood was sucked out of him and he was gone. before cops and paramedics arrived, john cleaned out vic’s room. while police shredded me with questions, john shot my heroin – to no effect.
i’m busting out the window to restore the peace. i’m busting out the window to restore my circulation. i’m busting out the window to let you know. warned enough. if my efforts are a headache, i’m going for blood . . vic pulled a gun on a cop. he went to prison. vic and i were fucking the same girl. we each knew there was someone else, but we didn’t know whom until she insisted on introducing us. vic and i talked so long about painting, barbara fell asleep. we became friends and drinking buddies and barbara became a hooker. but vic represented an extreme i did not believe in – time wasted in prison and rehab and on life-support, 3,000 used rigs in his bathroom like trophies or mementos. but we were able to hustle more cash together. when you are a junkie you mostly encounter assholes, some bright, most whining and self-centered, who are such greedy and resourceful machines they could have their own private jets. vic was a writer and painter, educated and older than me. he had worked as an archaeologist until some doctors and lawyers and a judge said he was insane. once insane, he was no longer qualified to dig holes into the earth . . the rush is a quickie: it has its stunning place at the front. but i dig the hours of low sound waves and curtained light: i like being a root. you are almost not alive and you can watch. if you push it, this death turns to dying, which puts you in bed for the worst three days of your life. if you push it further, dying turns back to dead, but this dead looks like gray meat on the slab . . rehab egoists profit off the predicament, as do badges, doctors, handcuff-makers, judges, and coroners, glad to tell you your lover had symmetrical breasts and chipped nail polish . . at the peurto ricans’, we went around back. the routine was you banged on the steel bulkhead. they lived in a fucking bunker. someone would yell from inside, “who is it?” vic yelled “zeek!” in the window of the first floor a couple of kids shook their heads at us. they knew what was going on. we weren’t the only ones. this place was hot. sometimes they shot at us with toy guns. it wouldn’t be long before the peurto ricans were raided by real guns. meanwhile, vic and i were standing in the snow, breathing clouds, waiting and waiting for our woman. he leaned over and banged on the bulkhead again. a few minutes and there was the sound of the thing being unlocked and it was pushed open and angelina was there, telling us to “shut the fuck up.” angelina was the matron of the bunker and she was in command of the heroin, which she dispensed much more quickly than she answered her bulkhead. angelina was small, in her 40’s, and had graduated from kennedy plaza long ago. she lived with her man and another girl in her 20’s in this dark unfinished basement clogged with furniture and divided by curtains. the floor was concrete, the ceiling exposed beams. they had a tv and a couch to the right, a dining room table straight ahead, where she let us shoot up, and a bedroom to the left, blocked off by a curtain. she kept the dope in there and we were never welcomed in there. down a narrow hall to the left was a makeshift bathroom with a bucket of water and no running water in the sink. the toilet was as clogged as our american dreams. angelina asked us what we wanted and took $50. this time we brought the dope into the bathroom and used the top of the sink. we had brought our own water. we decided to split a bag to start because angelina’s dope had killed sandra a week ago and put vic in the hospital. vic said the dope looked like the same dope. the shit hit harder than anything i’d had all year in any amount. by the time i was out to the dining room table to retrieve my coat, i didn’t know if i was walking straight. we split out the bulkhead and walked for the bus, bright and stupefied. it’s good, it’s good. we drank a couple beers at the bus stop and scratched. on the bus back to newport we agreed we would save the other bag for tomorrow because we were so fucking high it’d be a waste to shoot it. i nodded for most of the hour home. back at the hotel, we stopped by john’s for a quick visit. john later said we were aglow, and he, on methadone, was jealous. we split john’s place, each for our own rooms. i told vic i’d be right over. i dropped my coat and backpack off at my place and headed to vic’s. as i came into his room, he said, “i just did half a shot. yours is on the table.” i eyed the amber barrel and thought, “no fucking way. i’m so high already. why did he do that?” i sat down to roll a cigarette. before i opened the can of tobacco, vic fell over and the blood was sucked out of him and he was gone. before cops and paramedics arrived, john cleaned out vic’s room. while police shredded me with questions, john shot my heroin – to no effect.
