wailing

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CREEPHOLE

SLIPPING PAST DARK

There is No Nota. 

Dark the night

Nota is a Non

Nota is a void

an infinite Negative

plunging hole

that sucks

you out

of yourself
drains 
the soul

clearing 
 searing 

   seeing

           freeing

                as you fall

     so far

          in endless                     
                          dreaming

                     There is No Nota

                             Nota no home.


T

voices overhead

Off in my head a woman is talking

She is rather droll, yet sympathetic her rhythm monotone but warm

It is flatland sensible and the words flow freely

She talks of a little boy gone missing

There is a man responding but his tone too low to pick up.

Was he sympathetic or official? I could not say. Perhaps she placed a call regarding the disappearance.

Eavesdropping on conversations within my own mind

Somewhere fiddle music’s playing smooth serene, almost mournful.

I suspect it comes from where the woman is but it could just be in the passing air.

Ergin Sutter...

Ergin Sutter was a mean man. Quick to anger. Beat down anyone come ‘cross his path of ire, and his ire was always afire, mean old motherfucker, he was. He had five boys. Each and every one of those boys hated their father…one died hatin’ him. He beat them – had them beat each other ‘til disgust drove them out to parts unknown. Didn’t matter they never seen each other again – didn’t need to. He done that to them. Killed their souls. Mean old bastard.

Arthur was the big one. ‘Turo. He played a little football he did, but was never too bright to be gon’ to college, but he played in the Army and some men came round to see – take a look at this big mean kid. Head like a block. Thick everywheres. T’ighs de size of watermelons inside his pants. Had a time with Pittsburgh, but not regular. He was a defender, linebacker maybe, hurt people, until they hurt him.  Bad. Just takes once sometime. Wasn’t worth much after dat, and went to work on the docks. Heard a rumor he got crushed under a forklift, but that don’t sound right. For the forklift.

Messel was next and he bore the brunt of Big Arthur. Took a beating that kid. The first victim you know – after Art, cause the old man started in on Arturo – dats what his Momma called him. She left, went back to Puerto Rico or Nicaragua or whatever. Messel, he was slight, and wiry and wise. I think. The beatings never got to his mind. His mind was strong. He took it. Messel Sutter is a city controller in Arkansas, somewhere. Do you believe that. A controller – in charge of all that money. But back then he would bloody little David no end, until little David choked on a dog at the Giants. No one felt worse than Messel. Messel missed him the most. But the old man had one less mouth to feed.

Now I am looking out my window to that of another. This man looked vaguely familiar yet was older than most of my acquaintances. He looked Weathered, not of the outdoor variety, but still Well Worn. Weary. He was opening pill bottles one at a time – medication – for various ailments, most resulting from the fore mentioned ‘Weathering’.

He watched himself in his own mirror as he dropped each pill into a small crystalline dish sitting on tiled countertop. One by one until there were eight. Eight pills in the crystalline plate. He stared at them wondering if they were worth taking and how close would he be to the end of it all if he decided to stop altogether. Would he go fast, or slow, from some kind of rot inside to take his heart, his gut, his spine or his mind ? 

He trusted. And Lost. In his youth he proclaimed with naive hubris  “I believe you trust someone until they prove you wrong then you never trust them again.”

Of course he had it precisely reversed, and that was his first big mistake. No one gives a shit about you, Clarence. You are not the savior nor the center of their lives. They are!

They don’t trust you for a second, Clarence. Understand that. No one trusts you. … and they sure don’t need your blessings or salvation for redemption.

You are the background, scenery, atmospherics, part of a mingling choreography all warped around Them. Not you, Clarence.

(Forgive me. I have no right to 'bestow' a name on you...sir. I belittle you because I fear you. I could be you in some years time not long.)

He raises a glass, then the pill dish, tipping it efficiently into his mouth contents slide onto tongue and he sips water from the glass through a green straw. He wipes his chin. Looks again into his own sagging eyes, then turns out the light. Did he brush his teeth? He did not remember.

The window goes black, as does the mirror. No more peering into this void. No more stranger to avoid.

I’ve trusted and lost. I’ve been disappointed and I have disappointed, I have exceeded expectation, but come short of more. Mine included. The fault was mine, the gift mine to waste. We make choices, or they are made for us. I have been lied to and I have lied. There is no judge.

Morals are the guise that disguise survival.

welcome the calamity

Let them think me mad.

Make it easier on everybody.

No shame on ‘der part,

no guilt on yers.

He just gone and lost his mind.

Nothing we did wrong,

nothing he could do about it.

Just lost it.

Like keys in a parking lot.

Everybody does it –

got somethin’ to lose

since ev’body does it

you excused.

I tell you though.

Somebody drove you to that lot

because you got no car

and don’t need no keys.

So Who that somebody be?

I’ll never admit was you

Too late

Too little to prove

Just as soon

take that truth

With me

To insanity

where

I’ll welcome the calm

like I once welcomed

your arms

before

suffering your calamity

before surrendering

to your harm