ad-rift

ADRIFT

IN THE RIFT

BETWEEN

LIFE

AND

REALITY

so goes Ambrose

Ambrose knew he was in trouble before it came knocking. He could feel the deep gurgle, the rumble of thunder in the tank, then the buckle, and the belch  rise up, and flash, like lightning in the air and thrust him.

Signal Hill. 1967

When the tanks blew he was atop number 12. To hell and gone, Ambrose went. To the moon, they say. Never was enough left of the man to bury, and since he was cremated most efficiently and his ashes strewn throughout the heavens, they held a memorial instead. They tossed flowers, and weeped aloud, while gathered on a scorched hilltop, huddled above the remains of a mostly burnt-out oil field.

The thug-thug-thug-thug of the undamaged pumps dominated the ceremony as they’d dominated their lives. Their industrial ohm.  They would all feel the weight of this tragedy for the remainder of their days, as they felt the rhythmic quiver in the ground beneath their feet. Thug…thug…thug…within bone and sinew. 

What could still pump, was damn well pumpin’, though. Ol Ambrose woulda’ wanted it that way, damn it. "Suck it up!…hell…Blow up in glory, if that’s what gets it out of the ground!"

Warships in the harbor bounced on the waves, rippled from the blast, the shock rolling clear out to sea. The big quake was fairly recent history by then and people fled out to the streets in panic, only to find the hills burning black behind the city. Some fanned rumors that we’d been bombed.

“Ambrose blew clear into the bay!” some smart boys were heard to say, but the humor is pain on the loved ones. It is a cruel and awkward moment, with Ambrose’s Mama confronting the fool mouthed delinquent, making him cry in shame, right there on the steps outside of St Lorraine. 

So, that’s the demise of a fine man, and we’re going to leave it that way. No one goin’ to change that story, no matter what else you might hear. 

He said to me, “So what I learned was, Meredith wasn’t her name, and she didn’t live two floors down. You see how women lie to you nowadays?”

I never had the chance to tell him that it was Marybeth, and it was only one.

wailing

•  
•  
•  
• V

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.