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D. B. Cox |
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Exit "Even death will have exits like a dark theatre" --- Charles Bukowski I. Too spent to calculate the sum of scattered thoughts, he sits bent forward, hands folded in front of his face, like that Sunday school painting of Jesus in the garden, praying for a way out. He'll spend the little time left holding to slippery half-truths, trying to convince himself that he did what he had to do. Pushed to the edge, he lost all balance & stumbled into a hole so deep there was no way to gauge the fall. Suddenly, as if stunned by his own desperation, his body shudders & a short moan, like the parting sound of hope, escapes from some dark place very near his soul. Just to be moving, he gets to his feet & walks to the small cell window, where he watches a thin cloud slowly shroud the half-moon. In his head, he begins to gather fractured images, struggling to frame the still distorted scene… II. …Standing just out of range of the street lamp, he eyes a cab as it crawls along an otherwise deserted avenue. His attention shifts to a small, unlit house on the corner. When he spots the beat-up blue Chevy, that belongs to her new friend still sitting in the driveway, something close to a smile plays along his face. Every lousy little detail, behind those cheap curtains, burned, by time, into his brain: every corner, every crack in the floor, every angry scar on every faded wall, every broken glass, & every broken promise. Every meaningless minute spent begging mercy for every wrong thing. Feeling strangely numb, his hand moves against the cool metal of the .45 tucked inside his jacket pocket. Somewhere, a lost dog howls… Slowly, as if on cue, he lets a spent cigarette drop from his left hand, steps from the curb, & is taken, like a wind-blown bird, into the crazy night… III. …No last words He lies flat on his back, Arms & legs strapped tight to the contemporary cross. Staring straight up into an overhead light, he fights hard to stay awake as the fatal fix roars, like an express train, through his veins. For the first time in weeks things slow down enough to allow his brain to latch onto a clear thought… Still, no answers, only one last question… Jesus, if you're real, & can look through this concrete & steel. After having seen what you've seen, & knowing what you know, can you still stand by that altruistic suicide? BackPage 68 Another troubled night falls. The triple-canopy darkness closes around me like a body bag being zipped slowly shut. In the titanic darkness, the jungle breathes, like a living thing, & I sense the ghostly company of things that roam late. From the corner of my eye, I catch glimpses of shifting shadows that freeze in place whenever I turn my head to stare. Five months in-country, & still uneasy with the weight of the rifle in my hands. Still looking back toward old rules that no longer hold, & old order that has spilled over into chaos. A strange storm, just before sundown, seemed to bring some ancient evil from the highlands. How long can my angels shield me from the fangs of this forever-hungry beast? A trickle of sweat, finds a trail down the center of my back. My Dexedrine-charged heart slams, like a ten pound hammer, against my chest, intruding upon the heavy silence. How much more mad input, before this heart is stopped for good? How many more blinding-white days, & bullet-torn nights until I reach the cold understanding that the best part of me already lies twisted & rotting in the dense, tangled green. Road Like A River The bus drifts up an off-ramp, somewhere on I-95. We're moving toward the second show of the day. Two is nothing new. It's 1968, & business is good. Behind me, the trumpet man blows quietly into his horn. Warming up. His solo's down cold; all heart & soul. Miles couldn't play "TAPS" any sadder. All group moves, are choreographed in: "one of the few", "dress blue" precision… [Fire the rifles] (… don't look back) [Blow the horn] (… don't consider) [Fold the flag] (… don't believe) [Pass it over] (don't feel a thing) [Hand-salute] (… Semper Fi-nada) climb back on the long gray bus, & gone… Yeah, we've got it made out here on the highway. Just keep the conscious clean, & don't fuck with the machine. Riding a road, like a river with rapid black water, pulling us on, farther & faster. All of us -- bound for that vanishing point somewhere, in the heat-shadowed distance. |