Deep
Deep Deepest of darkness where I lay my head down to fall asleep and slip deeper deeper into the vortex of lost souls I search the void for a chance to survive in this pitiful maelstrom of existence I see nothing in this sanctuary of stolen dreams Survival depends solely on believing but I don’t believe in anything but a hole that pulls me deeper deeper into its bowels of destruction Forever burdened by a derelict fervor I ease into believing that nothing is all I will ever need
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I was sitting downtown, by myself, outside the Radio Bean, listening to a band called the Didjits on my portable speaker. I’d been listening to the Spaceshits, but some strange older woman had told me to turn it up and she said the band reminded her of the New Bomb Turks and then told me I should check out the Didjits. Always on the lookout for new bands to listen to, I said I would; I found them on Spotify moments later. Then she told me her food was ready; she went inside the Greek restaurant beside the Bean, and I moseyed back to the Bean and continued sitting here all alone. As I sat here, the woman walked past me holding her food and asked if I like the Boys. From England? I said. She said: Yeah. And I said: Yeah, the Boys are awesome.
So I was sitting here waiting for the Bean to open and the open-mike to begin. They open at 6:00 and the last two times I had driven down here for an open-mike I had to drive around for a good hour looking for a place to park. Tonight that was not the case; I had found a spot right away. So I got here half an hour early. But that wasn’t the worst: it was a beautiful night and it gave me time to sit here and reflect. And I really enjoy watching people and stuff like that and this is what my life is about—sitting in the midst of the commotion but not too close to become totally absorbed by it. On the outside, that’s where I wish to remain, but close enough so that I can join in whenever it feels right. At the open-mike I planned to read a new poem called “Devil” and a new story called “In the Absence of Zack.” I wasn’t sure how they would take those pieces, though. “In the Absence of Zack” is about a good friend of mine who had died from a heroin overdose a few years back. A few weeks ago the Bean had cancelled the open-mike because some young girl who I suppose had used to work there had died a few days earlier and they were doing a memorial for her, which is really sweet. I hope people care that much after I die. Every other week it’s poetry-only and every other week it’s everything else. This week it’s everything else, but I still read, anyway, and normally the Radio Bean brings pretty astute listeners to their venue. At other joints and venues people are loud and they don’t care what’s going on onstage. We become just ambient noise, for all they care. But here, at the Bean, they watch and they listen and they even applaud when you’re done, and that kind of validation feels good. Last time I was here, this guy named Bobby was here to perform too, and I used to go to his open-mike at Manhattan Pizza and I’d have him play guitar while I read and it was so much fun. So I had asked him if he’d do the same last time I was here, and he did. Bobby was here tonight, too, and I asked him if he’d do that for me again, and he said maybe, but since I didn’t want to make him feel pressured and plus, that one story I was gonna read is really sad and I didn’t think it would do well with music in the background—it’s one of those pieces that needs to stand alone—I told him not to worry about it; it was probably better that I went on alone. Outside the Bean this guy with a long ponytail walked past me and I stopped and stared thinking he was my friend Wyatt because he looked just like him and then I realized it wasn’t Wyatt and I texted Wyatt to tell him I just saw his doppelgänger outside of the Bean and he told me I should stop by Lincoln’s tonight—that’s where he works but nobody was there right now and he said I should stop in. I asked him to remind me where that is. He said it’s the speakeasy in the alleyway next to Red Square. I knew where that was, but I could never actually find the entrance to the speakeasy myself; it was apparently a hidden entrance and after many attempts to get in had failed, I figured this place doesn’t even exist. I was the third to go on. For some reason my anxiety was feeling pretty intense. I got up there and told everyone I was pretty anxious tonight. Hope I don’t piss myself, I added, then immediately regretted saying that and mumbled: But I probly won’t don’t worry. Everyone laughed. I gulped. I read the first poem. People smiled and clapped. I felt a little more comfortable up there now. Then I read the story about Zack. I smiled because people were reacting with sadness and compassion. That was the reaction I was going for when I wrote the story a few weeks earlier. After I read, I went to collect my stuff and head out, when the two women seated to my left asked me about my books. I didn’t want to stick around any longer, so I gave them each my card with my website on it and they read the blurb on the card and they both smiled. Then I set out to find Lincoln’s again. I was in the alleyway beside Red Square and I saw a bar and I went inside but I didn’t see Wyatt anywhere. I asked the bartender: Is this Lincoln’s? He said: Next door. I went outside the bar and all there was next door was an ATM. So I continued walking. Up the street I asked a bouncer outside some random bar where Lincoln’s was and he told me to go in that room with the ATM and find the secret button that opens the secret door. So that’s what I did: I went into that room but I couldn’t find the button so I texted Wyatt thinking he was fucking with me or something but then a hatch in the wall opened up and there was Wyatt, and the place actually did exist. I went in the bar and he served me a coke and told me it was on him and then we caught up for a while and he told me about his birthday party coming up and I didn’t think I’d make it and then eventually I left. After leaving I texted Michelle that I had finally found the speakeasy and that I was walking to the car and I’d be home shortly. But then, feeling bad that I wouldn’t be able to make it to Wyatt’s birthday party, I double-backed to the bar and decided to give him a copy of my newest book as an early birthday present. So I was in the ATM again and I could not find the button. Earlier Wyatt had opened the door for me. This time he texted me to tell me where the button was. He said it’s that wooden box, so I was searching for it. I thought maybe you had to lift it up and the button was behind it, but of course the box did not move. He said I was getting close. The button is the box. So I pressed the box and nothing happened and he came out and closed the secret door and then whacked the box, hard, and the door opened back up. I said: Oh, I’m good at punching things. And then I punched the box, and he said: Not that hard. And then I gave him his birthday present and walked to the car and went home. NO MORE BUSSES TO HUNTINGTON AVE., said the guy at the station. WE’RE CLOSING UP FOR THE NIGHT.
WHAT’S THE NEXT BUS? I asked him. Some whispers. He was chatting with someone just out of view. He turned to me and said: BLUE HILLS. Then grabbed the metal cage and pulled it over the window with a loud clank. FUCK! I spat. I turned to Samantha and smiled. She shrugged. She stood there, all innocent and beautiful. I paced up and down the ramp. Guess we should have spent less time branding each other with smileys from our lighters and more time preparing for the future. I looked at her again, still smiling. She was still shrugging. I nodded up the ramp toward the bus that was just pulling in. IT’D BE A LONG WALK, I told her. AT LEAST THIS WAY WE’RE A LITTLE BIT CLOSER. She stopped shrugging and nodded. We ran through the station, all the while fumbling for loose quarters in our pockets. The bus doors slid shut just as we got there. I banged my fist on the glass. The doors slid open. The bus driver, an elderly black man with short gray hair and a patchy gray beard, looked at us very sharply. He was considering this. We stood there framed by the doorway as he held his wrinkly black hand over the coin reader. I started up the steps. He coughed. Samantha followed me on the bus. He removed his hand from the coin reader and looked rather nervous as we walked right past him and dropped our quarters in the machine. There were two people on the bus, sound asleep. They sat in opposite aisles from one another and both their heads were buried in a large backpack. We made our way to the back. The bus jerked up and rumbled out of the station. I watched as Boston flew past me in a blur of lights. Samantha rested her head on my shoulder. I heard a ding and in a few beats the bus pulled up and one of the passengers got off. Before the bus started up again, the driver glared at me through the rearview mirror. His eyes looked hardened and dead. A few more streets later the bus pulled up and we gained a new passenger. A black man a few years older than us walked right up to us and sat down in the row in front of us. Samantha lifted her head and snapped to attention. The black man said: LISTEN. He was not looking at us. He was looking straight ahead, at the window across from him. LISTEN, he repeated. DO YOU KNOW WHERE THIS BUS GOES? UM, BLUE HILLS? I offered. He chuckled but I didn’t get the joke. He explained that Blue Hills crosses through Dorchester and Mattapan and was perhaps one of the toughest spots in the city. I looked at Samantha. Her eyes said that she was a little bit scared. I didn’t care. I was ready for an adventure. The bus driver said: LAST STOP. BLUE HILLS. As we followed behind the black man, he said without turning around: JUST STICK WITH ME, YOU’LL BE FINE. I checked the time and it was almost 2AM. He said he had to go get some smokes. FOLLOW ME. We crossed the street close behind him. He entered a 7/11 and I’d never seen a 7/11 that looked quite like that. It was just an empty room and the clerk and all the store’s products were secured behind bulletproof glass. That was when the fear started to sink in. We were way out of our league. Two middle-class white kids. We didn’t belong here. He ordered a pack of cigarettes and the clerk turned and retrieved one and slid it through the rectangular window at the bottom of the glass. We followed him out of the store. He said: THERE SHOULD BE ANOTHER BUS COMING THROUGH HERE SOON. IT DOESN’T MATTER WHERE IT’S GOING. YOU TWO ARE GETTING ON IT. We followed him across the bleak inner-city street. There was no noise except for the rattling of cans somewhere in the distance. It really set the ambiance of the night. The streets were empty. Imagine an old Western movie and there’s about to be a showdown and everyone is hiding and all that you can see are tumbleweeds rolling past the screen. We reached the bus stop and Samantha sat on the ground with her back to the wall as we waited. Time passed ever so slowly. We could have been there for 30 minutes or a few hours, there was no way of knowing. A black man and a black woman crossed us and the black man looked us up and down and said: YO, YOU WAITING FOR THE BUS? I nodded. He said: THIS AIN’T THE RIGHT BUS STOP. THE ONE YOU LOOKIN FOR IS OVER THERE. He pointed down the street to a dark dark alleyway. The man we were following turned to him and said: THEY’RE WITH ME! The strange woman laughed real loud and the man she was with just snarled and said: YOU’RE LOSS. A cop car drove past and the man we were with flagged him down. They stopped in the middle of the street, but it didn’t matter because there was no traffic whatsoever—they were the only car for miles. The man said: HEY, YO. CAN YOU GIVE THESE TWO KIDS A RIDE OUTTA HERE? The two cops exchanged a glance, then turned to the man and said: NOT OUR PROBLEM. They laughed. The black man said: DO YOU REALLY WANT TO TURN ON THE NEWS THIS MORNING AND FIND OUT TWO WHITE KIDS HAD BEEN MURDERED ON YOUR WATCH. Again, they exchanged a glance. The one in the driver seat said: I GUESS WE CAN GIVE THEM A RIDE TO THE EDGE OF TOWN. WE CAN’T GO ANY FARTHER, THOUGH. The man looked at us and said: WHAT ARE YOU TWO WAITING FOR? We hurried into the back of the cruiser. This was my first time in a cop car without my hands cuffed behind my back. They drove us to the edge of town and we walked the rest of the way back to Samantha’s dorm. The world is spinning
I stare into the abyss I watch as the colors of a fading bliss transform deeply through devious means of madness Shadowed by comfort I walk a fine line besmirching my genius Wallowing in what some have succumb to in a world of fear vanity & pride My eyes burn with delight as I stab my throat time&time again The blood coats the brown leather sofa as I peer into a manic dreaminess Draped with death I walk largely across the bony cobblestones My thoughts stunted like we’ve surpasses the lines of normality I play ball with the soldiers from forbidden throngs |
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