Train Tracks
Growing up in my town in the deep south during the sixties was a bit different than the rest of the country, or at least what I saw on TV.
Running east and west was the Southern Pacific Railway where every day at about four in the afternoon a freight train would run through town. Then, later, closer to midnight, another echoed into the night as my brothers and I slept beside open windows on a hot summer night.
On the south side of the tracks, all the blacks lived. On the north, the whites. This was the order of things.
In a mainstreet cafe where many insurance agents, farmers, lawyers, car salesmen and a whole hodge podge of white men came to sip coffee from a quarter to seven till about eight, a sign on the wall a few feet from the long, green topped counter read: “We reserve the right to serve whoever we want.” Even as a boy, I wondered if they would ever refuse me a cup of coffee because little boys didn’t drink coffee with grown men.
Which, of course, brings me to the water fountain. Blacks never drank from them. They just didn’t. My buddies and I often wondered what happened if they did. Or, if we actually saw one drink from the fountain. And which fountain, because the only ones I remember were at school, and school was closed for the summer. Maybe down at the court house, but we never went down there.
What I remember most was my father cussing at those “animals, damn animals” burning Cleveland one summer of which year I can’t remember. He cursed them, demanding they be sent back to Africa. I’m sure I didn’t know why. All I figured was they, those black men in Cleveland, were lucky because my father’s anger would never reach out to them. To me and my brothers, well, that was all together different.
That was just the order of things.
Wishful Thinking
The freedom lost so long ago I barely remember the cool, refreshing taste of joy running through my veins. Once, while soaking a battered and bruised body in hot springs, small pools encased in stone beside a wide rushing creek frigid and coarsing through the forest. Jeremiah Johnson in Idaho under the full moon of lonely summer sky where oxygen is so pure it may ignite into flames at any moment. I’ll be sleeping under a tree with no fear of the darkness.
Words from the Mouth
“Death and life are in the tongue’s power” (Mishlei 18:21). The tongue can cause harm in a way that the sword cannot. The sword can kill only through direct contact with its victim, while the tongue can bring about the ruination of someone who is miles away. Man was created with two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, but only one mouth, to indicate that he is obligated to limit his speech, for transgression through speech can occur quite easily, and with far-reaching consequences.
Chapter 1
Lying in bed at three in the morning naked, sweating and swatting a lone fly biting his ankle, Morgan Shores could not sleep, so he tried to dissect the pockets of parasites that gorged off the fear swelling in his brain.
First, the facts. Uncle Virgil died nine months ago. He promised Morgan with his last breath he would be back. He lied. He died. They buried him. And on the third day, he did not rise. What was resurrected plagued him with a vengeance.
Second, the problem. Delusions of the most extraordinary kind. Soon as Uncle Virgil died, Morgan’s lifelong battle with tricks of the mind reappeared. Marauding strangers provided a delightful Promethean theme: blood and guts at night, milk and honey during the day. The combinations proved lethal and drove him to the brink of madness, especially since the milk and honey had now turned to piss and vinegar.
Third, the solution. Acceptance seemed a slick trick. Why fight it? He couldn’t run and hide because wherever he went, there they were. Yet, Morgan argued, did prisoners-of-war locked away in solitary confinement with bamboo shoots hammered up their butts accept the fact that they were helpless slugs and moved on with their lives?
Oh sure, he could move on all right. Right back to the insane asylum he called home for ten years–The Wholesome Living Sanitarium in Poughkeepsie, New York. That glorious day of discharge sparkled clearly in his mind. Even though it was three long years ago, he could never forget that momentous occasion when the good doctor gave him such a promising prognosis.
“Beware. Delusions breed like fleas multiplying on a mangy dog’s back. No amount of fairy dust is going to keep you from scratching sores already infected with a yellow bile that attracts flies from miles around. Maggots lay eggs. So does insanity. If you don’t snap out of it, when you return, Morgan, and I’m certain that you will, we will be forced to lance it out like a boil and drain all the pussy fluids infecting the remaining pieces of your brain.
Late Afternoon
Envelope left unsealed, letters slip out amongst
rose petals strewn on cherry wood writing desk.
banker’s green glass shade says pull gold chain after
setting sun prisms refracted light
broken into pieces of articulated
silence embedded in a gilded frame above.
full sail on emerald blue sea cresting
foam washes stars of rusted sky
beneath rudder guided without compass
what’s the point if the point is broken
and bells toll into the wind warning
without her soft hand holding my dream
upside down pineapple cake crumbs left
not long ago when the guests departed
dust sparkling in beam of sudden stillness
heavy is the afternoon, piano lesson lingers
some distant shore waving feathered pampas grass
further inland, untilled fields remember sugar cane crops
two years now, after all is cut and burned
smoky hints, perfume linger beside unread writings
all, alone in the room.
