HEROIN

34. HEROIN (1968):

And that ain’t that never was water in my veins that was what you call heroin line-marks needle pathways connect the dots the march of living over and over something that’s what that was and every dark and dreary day that drove me by was meaningless and infested with filth the stench the swill the smell of pus and gore and vile matter and from one drug to the next like phone-banking the enemy it all went together aside into one as once united into a hoarse debacle of freedom’s notice skimming the tide slipping like a stone on the dead very weight the dead weight of water and that dead weight being enough to pull down a big ship it probably does did and will over and over like the habit itself for nothing changes in the land of the dead and only KINGSHIP is a given so walk with me along this ratty old street looking over 14th like it all just landed and there’s oh so much difference everywhere even though people say it’s all the same it’s not the guy with the flower shop at the useless bar down the western end of the street sitting there talking with tables and wine and the old game goes on he shows cards and business pictures and starts describing weddings and floral portraits and banquets and all that he’s had to decorate with his vast floral talents only problem is NO STORY JIVES every drive to Buffalo seems to make it back too fast or not in time and a wedding in a distant town means he’s not doing business in New York City so what’s he telling me anyway and why am I listening merlot cabernet sauvignon rot gut anything to blame he’s just another drunk talker who knows the woman behind the bar SO WHAT get away from me that’s what and instead of reciprocating I leave it all to others and take away my solitary confinement to a nearby table where I start reading the paper and no one bothers me no one and right outside there are benches too and the Spanish food truck selling right there on the street and silence rules the day FINALLY there’s no one to talk to except listen to the passing parade part-time losers seekers weepers and creepers they all pass by but the silencio is just right and I start looking at the second and third floor windows of all the buildings across the street and some of them roll out sideways and others open up and these are old buildings with windows that still work and glass that ripples light in the daytime afternoon air and I’m just staring at them with their lettering on glass and etched panes and wooden frames and I seem to lose time and bearing and focus just lost like that thinking instead of space and distant light the long throw from the far planets and stars like a planetary Columbus out at sea distant and detached as I can be humming tunes and aware of everything and the Indian music a tabla sitar sound combined the strange rhythm of another place and in that sound that drifts from across the way it seems the entire movement of the wind and air catches every leaf on every tree and all that moves and I am small as small as everything else is big and large and vivid and still and the angled panes of wood and brick and concrete glass wood each loving building partaking of itself and sharing time and place and the faint breeze between things echoing of time and the light like the element the fluid between the air wavers as the music and sound revolves around and over and lights like a carnival wither and fade and arise and strengthen and the sound is woven into everything and all that is has slowed down to nothing and the low light comes up from the river the moistened air the rolling water mist favoring presence favoring what’s real but I dream and pass and dream back and return and studying faces I notice everything and everyone seems so different from another place and the circles around them sing of where and when and how and everyone presents themselves without comment to the air and sky and sound and to me unmoving unknowing unwavering and aware so much of every momentary thing.