Simple Need

Miguel’s life likewise was neither favoring as he struggled to be heard. He wrote daily and had three sketchbooks full of art. He often slept in the park drunk on wine. He had never submitted a page. Sure he had read his poems at cafes for young travelers to become parts of the stories but he had never approached a publisher. I told him constantly at night, at the zocolo how he should send some of his work off. As it turns out his art was magnificent. Miguel had a way of capturing the homeless and needy in a poetic manner. The drawings always portrayed someone without the comforts of money or shelter, yet he captured a calm about them even if his characters may have been begging for money on a street corner one could recognize the worth in selflessness. As in his sketches his writings held a certain substance. He could turn the dirtiest hobo into a gentleman, a stormy raining sky into a blissful shower and simple need into poetry. Yet there were many lonely days in Miguel’s life that couldn’t find the pleasantness’ on one of his pages.

Bottle Deposit

Turns out Miguel is the father of a boy in northern Mexico whom he hasn’t seen in a few years, dating back to when he first arrived and became addicted to speed. He tells me that his lover was an alcoholic and they lived well together while consuming their vices; although her family insisted she return home when they found out about the pregnancy. Miguel was asked to leave their village by her family after the boy was born. He had been working at hotels and restaurants along the way making enough money only to maintain a minimal existence. He traveled light as did I, and our experiences differed only slightly over the past few years. I was fortunate enough to have written a few short stories that had been picked up by an independent publisher in Canada. In turn they deposited a few dollars into a royalty account for me bi monthly. It never really amounted to much, but it usually took the tension off of coming up with money for such trivial things as rent. I preferred to physically work as little as possible. My day would usually start off with a couple of beer and tomato juice, then something to eat, something easy like one fried egg lightly seasoned with dried oregano, a dash of salt and pepper and a piece of dry toast which I could make on my hotplate using tin foil I kept folded on the table. I usually drank another couple of beer straight up then wrote poetry or hard luck short stories. In the afternoon I often scoffed the landlord’s bottles for return as this made for affordable drinking. He would accuse me of taking them but he always stored the empties in the same location. I think he was grateful of having me there so he could tell his wife that I wasn’t paying the rent, he would always skim some money off the top for his own secret desires. It all seemed dirty; my entire life had become a dirty bottle deposit return.

Rotten Teeth

He told me
I was getting overweight
He with his rotten teeth
and caved-in face
a couple of hairs
on top of his head
No money in his pocket
and a tank
out of gas
And he told me
I was getting fat
Thats all he said

Miguel

When I unload the bus I notice Miguel sitting on the sidewalk across the street, which is unusual as I only ever run into him at night. “Miguel come drink wine with me, something very strange happened to me today.” Miguel gathers his pencils and his sketchpad, it seems he’s been drawing storefronts and people of the street. “ I didn’t know you are an artist as well as a writer.” “There are many things we don’t know about each other Jack.” “That can’t be more true as I am only now finding out things about myself I didn’t even know.” “Like what?”
Miguel and I return to my musty basement apartment that consists of two small barred windows, a small fridge, hotplate, a bed, small bathroom with a Closter phobic cold water shower, small table and two hardwood chairs. Necessities, simply raw necessities. I clear the contents of the table onto the floor, lay a piece of newsprint down to set the cheese and bread onto and open the bottle of red wine. “Here’s to life!” I raise the bottle to salute then swallow a few good pulls and pass the bottle to Miguel. “Here’s to living writing and fucking, I don’t know in what order to praise.” I fill Miguel in on my experience of the day as we share the wine, fight verbally with the landlord and eat bread and cheese. Miguel shows me the pages of his sketchbooks, what fabulous drawings, pencil, black ink pen and some charcoal drawings.

Rally Weekend

Hell of a weekend
where was the camera when the girls were
drunk and in a pile?
made it three days straight
home to heal
for a couple of days anyway

Junkie

I stand on the sidewalk confused. A garbage truck passes through a standing puddle on the street; it splashes to soak my pant leg. “What luck” I say to myself. A junkie wearing the signature crooked smile passing along the sidewalk grins at me. “Tu querer cocaine?” The junkie stops dead in his tracks. “You hab coke mister?” I negotiate a deal, selling him the plastic wrapped package, containing god only knows what. After he leaves the entire city seems to quiet as I venture into myself. Cars pass on the busy street news-stand attendants sell their trappings although I can’t hear a sound of it. I can’t believe I have a daughter, one that I never knew existed, although Reina did mention that the father was an American and I must have mentioned a hundred times that I am Canadian. I take a deep breath as all the sounds of the city reoccur. I don’t know whether to walk into the traffic, clean up or go get a bottle of wine. I opt for the latter. I made enough selling the package to purchase a roll of bread, a small block of white cheese, a big bottle of red Mexican wine, a bus ticket home and I can even pay the land lord half the rent.

Good Old Days

Jack told me they had threatened him with
a five point restraint
Those were the good old days
Straight-jackets
and beatings by cops
Hardly recognizable
when they were through
His arm
disabled
in one quick thrust
All he was guilty of
was to
sock one of them in the
eye
He told Denny to run
they didn't make it
far
In the morning
Ol' Denny dining on
bacon and eggs
asking the guard for more
coffee
as Jack lay cold, clothless on
the drunk tank
floor
They had hosed him
down
a couple of
times
That was before he
enwrapped himself
in toilet paper
"Take that off
now
or you'll be in a
straight-jacket
for the long weekend"
They filled Denny's cup
with warm brew
as Jack wiped the dried blood
from above his
eyes.

Hobo

You look like a hobo.” “I’ve been writing some and sometimes working as a custodian at your old striptease. No one there knows what happened to you, all they know is that you quit dancing and filtered into the depths of the city without leaving any contact”. “That is the way I wanted it to be Jack I want to leave the past behind.” “What about Estella’s father, did you marry him?” “No”. “Do I know him?” Reina offers no response. “It’s all in the past, now try to do something about that mess of hair.” I consider the age of Estrella. “You say she’s five?” “Si tango sinco anos.” “Reina, is she my daughter?” “Just fix your hair, and here have a piece of gum your breath is horrible.”
“Jack, this is Estrella, Estrella this is Jack.” The shy young girl takes her mothers hand and hides behind her leg. “Come on Estrella say hi to Jack.” “Hello meester.” “She can understand English?” “Well of course she can, she learns it in school, one day we will move to the United States and live with her father.” “Her father is an American?” “Yes.” Reina winks. “I must return for work now Jack we will have to say good by.” “Can I see you again, where do you live?” “No time for that now Jack, don’t worry we will see you again, adios.”

morning

Eyes on me watching my every move.
Studying my every shake.
Left over and vibrating.
The muscle relaxant and half bottle of C.C. wasn’t the calm I anticipated.
No escape as I tremble my way through the travails of the microwave.
Stupid fucking machine.
Can’t stop the shaking.
Feel like passing out.
Not the drunk kind of pass out, moreover like a sick person missing meds.
I fumble through the drawers like a junky searching for a needle.
Shaking withdrawal.
Nerves dropping to the floor into pools of vomit.
The staring ever so present and terrifying persistent glare.
Can’t open the can.
Can’t start the fucking microwave.
Life falls into pools of nerve vomit.
I give up finally on fighting with the microwave.
She opens the can of tomato juice for me to mix with my beer.
I need to get my back to the world.
I lower my head with lack of dignity into pools of vomit,
then drink my morning beer.