She

Shi has always been my closest companion
my confidante, my lover, my judge
touching the lives of the people around me
her hand so close to grazing my own
I can feel the warmth of her fingertips

Shi whispers her name in my ear as I sleep
I'm unsure if it's a tease or a prophecy
uncertain if I want her to lay down beside me
taking me in her willowy arms
embracing me as the candle slowly burns

Shi comes and goes as she pleases
but never quite leaving me alone
reminders of her presence litter my room
a murder of crows, a salt-pepper ram
keep me company until shi returns

Shi promises me comfort & redemption
alluring in her matte black dress and veil
a vision of fate and relentless certainty
her broken watch oddly out of place
but still keeping perfect time

Shi goes days without a single word
then blusters on for weeks on end
"hominem te esse memento" & "memento mori"
repeated until I hear them in my sleep
never knowing if she'll be there when I wake

Show Me Where It Hurts

I was going through some boxes and I came across and old gig case for a guitar I no longer own. It was just folded up inside along with a few zippos and 18" x 12" unframed canvas painting. The initials "R.J" scripted neatly at the bottom right in black oil.
Regina J. was an art student I dated a long time ago. A million years ago, it seems like. She had this exquisite tattoo on her shoulder of Alice gazing through a looking glass to see herself reflected as the Queen of Hearts. She sculpted mostly. Industrial stuff - definitely not marketable to anyone mainstream. But she didn't give a shit.
We dated for a few months. Actually, "dated" would be a rather generous term. We fought some. A lot. About politics, about movies, about art, about other men or women. We would literally scream at each other at the top of our lungs while our faces were inches apart. But it would only be a matter of time before I'd grab her by her hair or she'd shove me against a wall.
Needless to say, it was a fairly frenzied couple of months.
Anyway, I unzipped the guitar case and found a sheet of spiral notebook paper with a song I'd written for her. It was from my early "three chords of crap" period. Not quite power-ballad, not quite bubblegum punk. Just self-important bullshit.
But I humbly present to you "Show Me Where It Hurts". For Regina.

Don't hide behind that bandage

Can't numb it with that pill

I feel a little greedy

but I promise I won't kill

***

Take your finger off the trigger

I'll take my hands off your throat

Who are you trying to fool?

I read your suicide note

***

(chorus)

Show me where it hurts
tell me where it bleeds
let's take off all our clothes
and find out where it leads

***

Don't you like it when I scratch?

Do you like it when bite?

candle wax and razor blades

I love it when you fight
***

(repeat chorus)

***

Let's get you in the shower

and wash off all that pain

some of yours & some of mine

half-naked in the rain

***

(repeat chorus)

Beautiful Without Me

I had found the place by accident. There are a few thousand acres of woods behind my house and I used to spend a lot of my time walking the horse trails that meander through the trees. Though quite primitive, the paths had always been lifesavers for me becuase of my uncanny sense of misdirection. Once you get a hundred yards or so beyond the treeline, it's difficult to find your bearings. A 30 minute walk could easily turn into a two hour domestic replay of Lord of the Flies.

But being the gadget man that I am, I invested a couple hundred bucks in a handheld GPS unit. Voila - I was no longer a slave to the tramped dirt pathways. I could mark my house on the GPS and use it to to find my way back without leaving a proverbial trail of breadcrumbs.

The forest was now mine.

So I set out, GPS firmly in hand, determined to discover the outermost reaches. Through clearings, crouching under branches, snagging my shirt on thorns. For almost an hour before I found it - a place where the rock ledges intertwined to form a natural cathedral of stone, accessible only through an almost invisible three foot wide crevice.

Emboldened by explorers of the past - Desoto, Magellan, de Leon - I walked through the opening to see........... crushed beer cans and broken whiskey bottles littering the leaf-covered floor. So apparently I wasn't the first to grace this virginal outpost. It must have had a 20+ year history as a hangout for underage drinking and general mischief.

But beyond the spray-painted graffiti and discarded trash lied a truly beautiful, almost majestic, place. The sunlight broke through the trees above to form a thousand spotlights, each one framing a a dark corner in a bath of light. The main 25 foot wide opening was encircled by a dozen or more rocky outcrops. And the intersection of each one of those formed an almost unpassable exit to yet another smaller opening. Definitely a place to be explored rather than defiled.

I marked the point on my GPS and filled my backpack with as many cans and bottles that I could carry.

I go back to that place every now and then, each time trying to scrub and little more paint off the rock walls or disposing of a little more litter. Not for myself - I think I can see past the traces of refuse and appreciate the sublime for what it is, before it was besmirched by inconsiderate shitheads. But maybe I can make little easier for the next guy to realize how beautiful it is. Even without me.

Schismatist

Even after I stopped doing some serious drinking, I still made a habit of spending a lot of time in bars. It was probably good for me to get out in a social atmosphere, even if I wasn't directly contributing to the fraternization. I suppose that my theory was that I would somehow absorb the ability to mingle via osmosis.
But mostly I just found myself clinically observing other people.
And I spent one night observing one person in particular.
She was drunk even before she walked in. It was a hotel bar, so my first thought was that she may have been a prostitute. But that belief quickly faded away. I knew a hooker when I see one, and she was no hooker. Though she was a little under-dressed for this particular bar. Her clothes a little too tight & cheap and her shoes much too Payless.
Just a drunk whore.
I'm surprised they even served her. She was visibly wobbly and obviously alone - a combination that's usually a prologue to trouble. So I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I nursed my sidecar. It wasn't so much a predatory gaze, but rather how one would look at a car careening out of control on a winding mountain road - something bad was about to happen and I didn't want to miss it.
As my eyes volleyed back and forth between her now slumping figure and my melting ice cubes, I noticed another man in the corner doing the very same thing. But he wasn't merely looking on in grotesque amusement. He was patiently waiting for opportunity.
He was about my age, maybe a little younger, well-dressed and sober enough to know exactly what he was doing. And planning. An unintentional predator salivating at a target of convenience.
He waited 30 seconds or so after she gulped what remained in her glass then stumbled toward the door before he left a twenty on his own table and followed her out. But not before scanning to his left and right to see if he was the only one eyeing the unsuspecting girl.
I watched them both through the picture window facing the street, their bodies now framed between Bass & Guinness neon signs. She was attempting to sort her thoughts, obviously in vain. Maybe trying to figure out how she'd get home, remembering the bus schedule or calculating what the cab fare would be . But much too engrossed in her ephemeral thoughts to notice him approaching.
I saw the whole episode acted out in mime to the jukebox soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughn's Tightrope. He was trying to give off the impression of a helpful stranger, offering her a ride home. Or maybe just walk with her a while to make sure she was ok - there were a lot of crazies out in the streets that late, right?
She clutched her purse tight against her ribcage, perhaps sensing that he wasn't as he seemed. She drew back as he reached his hand out to rub her shoulders - just a warm, friendly gesture, right? Her apprehension didn't deter his physicality. To the contrary, he must have liked his women with a little fire in their bellies. He stepped up his tactile offensive by wrapping his arm around her waist.
I'd seen enough. I left money on the bar to cover my tab and strode through the door
"Leave her alone, you piece of shit", I said.
Perturbed at being interrupted, he placed his hand on her breast and told me to mind my own business.
I asked her if she wanted me to call her a taxi. She looked at him before answering in the affirmative. I held out my hand for her to take and led her away from the dirtbag.
And he was pissed. But he didn't move from in front of the building. Just watched us walk halfway down the block to the hotel entrance and to the curb as I hailed a cab.
I opened the back door and made sure she was in safely as I handed the driver 2 twenties and told him to take her home. She looked at me without a 'thank you' as the car pulled away.
I started heading back to finish my "conversation" with the scorned shitbag. Since he clearly wasn't interested in going back in the bar, he must have wanted to have a few words with me. And by now, I couldn't help but notice a few patrons watching us through the window, waiting for the discussion.
But then I heard a car honk from the street as the same taxi pulled back next to me after circling the block. The driver rolled down his window.
"She's too drunk. She won't tell me where she lives. Told me to take her back here. I don't have time for this" he said, frustrated, as he handed me back one twenty.
She opened the door, nearly falling to the pavement face-first, and exited the car.
"Sorry", she apologized. "I don't remember my address. I guess I'll just have to go home with you".
I was suddenly disgusted by her tequila-slurred words and clumsy attention-seeking.
"Look, there's no way you're coming home with me. You better get your ass back in that cab before you do something really stupid or before someone does something real stupid to you", I spat out.
What the hell was the point of helping someone who was pretty much deadset on self-destruction?
"Come on, guy. Just take me home, ok? I just need to sleep a little then I'll feel better in the morning. I swear I'll be good", she pleaded.
The spurned suitor was watching this all in amusement.
"I'll take you home, sweetheart" he offered with a smile, ever the helpful gentleman.
She looked at him then she turned back to me.
"So what's it gonna be, huh? Are you going to make me go home with him?" she asked, almost daring me to take advantage of her.
"You're going to have to find yourself another hero, little girl" I told her as I walked back into the bar for 8 or 9 more drinks.

Does He?

Does he make you smile like I used to do?
whispering a dirty joke in your ear at a funeral
then glaring at you in mock disdain
as your cashmere lips form a resisted grin
Does he?

Does he make you laugh like I used to do?
when you're alone in your car, me miles away
but you titter thinking about the time
I painted happy faces on my nipples
Does he?

Does he make you come like I used to do?
turning you on like a switch
my finger tracing gently on your hip
as my teeth sink into your neck
Does he?

Does he make you feel like I used to do?
hunger, madness, longing and desperation
all before I finish your song
my fingers raw against the steel strings
Does he?

Does he make you scream like I used to do?
as I peel back your scabs
and probe your wounds with my finger
not sure if I'm a healer or a masochist
Does he?

Does he make you cry like I used to do?
wiping your tears before I walk back in the room
pretending everything couldn't be better
as if I never said the things I did
No he doesn't, does he?

Intoccabile

I exited the lobby of my hotel
temporarily blinded by the reflection
off the glass highrise across the street
I had to quickly jerk myself back
to escape being trampled by commuters

I stood motionless waiting for my chance
to merge with the industrious crowd
not wanting to be absorbed by the bustle
shrinking myself to fend off their touch
practically leaping into an approaching void

I skitted to the right and left
nearly colliding with oncoming traffic
not even wanting to be casually brushed
nor inadvertantly bumped, tapped or rubbed
content to be tactually invisible

Then I noticed a strange phenomenon
just before I would flinch to dodge a passerby
they would move away from me instead
the more I condensed myself
the bigger the buffer they allowed
until I was surrounded by an ethereal halo

It was warmly comforting..... at first
unconcerned with their brutishness
lengthening my stride, slowing my gait
brazenly immune to my environment
my own aura of sanctuary

But as I reached out my open hand
to aid a fallen pedestrian
her purse strewn across the pavement
she suddenly withdrew from me
with a sickening churlishness

And she wasn't alone in her revulsion
a colleague refused my handshake
a grandmother dismissed my embrace
a lover spurned all intimacy
as my sanctuary became a prison

The Redline

When I was younger, I used to take the train into the city to buy my drugs. It was a real pain in the ass, but if the cops saw a nice car with suburban plates in that part of town, they'd pull you over every time. Not that they'd have probable cause for a search, but that rarely stopped them. Fortunately, I learned this fact by proxy when one of my college roommates got busted for possession when he was pulled over in his Lexus one block away from a crackhouse.
So I'd drive to Union Station then take the Red Line to Logan Circle (this was right before the area started getting gentrified) then walk four blocks around the back of this 3-story brownstone. It was one of the only places I knew about where you could get both coke and heroin. Moonrocks was my thing at the time and it was a real pain to go to two different dealers.
I'd made this trip a couple dozen times maybe. This was over about a year and a half, so it's not like I was a complete junkie or anything.
So, I'm sitting there on the train in a pair of A&F cargoes, an Eddie Bauer rugby shirt and my Timberland leather jacket. It had been a good month since I'd really let loose so I was getting a little heavy, counting the minutes until my stop.
We pulled into Metro and I noticed this black dude, a younger kid - maybe just old enough to drink, wheel himself into my car in a beat-up old wheelchair. I was surprised that his transfer was almost... well, graceful. I figured he must have been in it for a while to the point where this was second nature for him. He got himself settled in as the doors closed and the train pulled away.
He was a big guy, even to me. Not "fat" big. Just substantial. Massive even, to the point where his frame looked grossly disproportionate to the chair that supported him. He was nattily dressed, sweatsuit and cap, but it was clean and in good repair. A 7-11 nametag, Ruslan, was affixed to his chest so I assumed he was on his way to work.
I found myself silently theorizing how he ended up chairbound. Aside from his shrunken, degenerated legs, he didn't have anything else obviously wrong with him. Car accident probably. But as he backed himself into the handicap slot, the sleeves of his sweatshirt worked themselves up to reveal a telltale one inch crater scar bullet wound on his forearm and I assumed that wasn't the only one.
He was directly across from me when he took off his redskins Starter cap, placed it upside-down in his lap... and began to sing.

I call, You hear me

I’ve lost it all

And it’s more than I can bear

I feel so empty
You’re strong I’m weary

I’m holdin’ on

But I feel like givin’ in

But still You’re with me

His voice was... soulful, heartbreaking, joyous, triumphant and broken all at once. I've never been one for gospel, but he was simply amazing. I mean, after the first note, every single person in that train car stopped whatever it was that they were doing and just gazed at him in awe.

And even though I’m walkin’ through
The valley of the shadow
I will hold tight to the hand of Him
Whose love will comfort me
And when all hope is gone
And I’ve been wounded in the battle
He is all the strength that I will
Ever need
And He will carry me

The words "wounded in battle" struck me and all of a sudden I knew exactly how he ended up in his chair. Might've been a drive-by. Might've been a deal gone bad. Might've been ice-driven frenzy. But one was the same as the others. And the outcome was sure the same.

I know I’m broken
But You alone
Can mend this heart of mine
You’re always with me

He breathed out the last word and stared right into my eyes. Not because he saw me as a fellow broken soul. But because he saw me as a predator. As a killer. His killer.

And he was right. I pulled that trigger. Not literally, but it didn't matter. I hadn't picked up a gun in years, but the bullets in his arm and his back were mine. Or maybe even meant for me. My money bought the gun, loaded the clip and squeezed the trigger.

The train stopped at Farragut as passengers drifted by and filled his cap with singles and a few fives.

The train moved on towards Logan Circle, but he didn't sing again. He just looked at me with a sense of.... I wasn't sure at first. But then I knew. He was sitting in judgment, waiting to see which stop I'd make my own. Would I get off on the next stop or would I stay on until Bethesda or maybe Rockville. If I stood up too soon? He'd find me guilty. And he'd be right.

The train slowed as it pulled up to the platform. He stopped looking at me only long enough to gather his things in preparation for his own departure. But he glared back at me as I began to stand up myself. He was about to say something, spit out some invective perhaps, when I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my wallet.

I placed 7 fifty dollar bills in his hat and sat back down.

Are You Experienced?

Has it ever hurt so bad that you didn't care what happened
90 miles per hour down Suicide Hill
seatbelt unbuckled and The Cure full volume
Not quite deliberate but not quite unplanned
Reckless and surrendering to chance?

Have you ever fallen so hard that you plan your breakdowns
laying a Franklin and a Jackson on the bar
your address scribbled on the twenty
to (maybe) get yourself home
as long as you don't puke in the cab?

Are you consumed by the past that you risk your future
hiding her painting in the trunk with your old trophies
her first initial and last name in the bottom corner
an excuse already prepared if someone finds it
"Oh, I didn't even know I still had that old thing"?

Have you ever felt so alone, lying next to someone else
just as beautiful, just as passionate, just as kind
holding out your arm to keep her at the right distance
close enough to invite her inside
far enough so that she won't stay?

Ever want the pain to stop so much that you........
still refilling your prescriptions
but no longer taking your pills
full honey-colored bottles with childproof caps
lining the inside of your medicine cabinet?

Because if you haven't felt what I've felt
desperation, anguish, rage, wretched longing
then no amout of caring or desire
will countermand the difference
between my past and our future

She Doesn't Deserve Me

I can give her a good five minutes a day
I'll be there for her most of the time
Her birthday is next week, I think
I'll try to get her some flowers
She doesn't deserve me

I kinda have my own thing going on
Things I'm trying to work out
Maybe I'll figure it out this year
She's got time to waste, right?
She doesn't deserve me

I'll always love someone else more
but she's right up there, top 5 at least
She really means something to me though
I say "me too" when she says she loves me
She doesn't deserve me

There's that guy that likes her at work
who brought her soup when she was sick
She ate it as she ironed my shirts
I didn't give her a hard time when she spilled
She doesn't deserve me

I should probably call her tonight
She's seemed kind of down lately
especially when she left this morning
I thought last night was great though
She doesn't deserve me

Chapter Two

Even before my recent hermitage, I haven't been working all that much. Technically speaking, I still have an office, but I eased back my schedule to less that a half dozen sessions per month. Bridge sessions - deaths in the family, temporary job woes, ex-clients who need some quick reinforcement - that sort of thing. None of them are long term. If I see them heading that way? Immediate referral.

Pretty much everyone here knows this. I'm effectively out of business. Then they had that mall shooting in Omaha last month.

I have these friends, David and Dahlia ("Dolly" to friends) with a 17-year old son, Seth. I saw Dolly for about 4 years, so I was well aware of Seth's issues - self-harm, drug use, violent behavior, etc. I was there when he was involuntarily admitted to residential care after a suicide attempt a couple years ago. The kid has been in a pretty dark place for a long time. A lost cause if there ever was one.

So anyway, after that kid in Omaha shot up the mall a couple weeks before Christmas. David and Dolly call me and tell me that their very worried about Seth. They had found a box of shotgun shells in his room. No gun, but they were alarmed nonetheless. They couldn't get over the fear that they would see him on the news after he shot a dozen of his schoolmates. They just wanted to know if I can just talk to him and get a feel for what kind of path he was on. He was already in court-ordered therapy (group and individual) after his last legal run-in, but unfortunately it was with a court-appointed therapist. And a kid like Seth can easily manipulate most of those types. Real life isn't like Good Will Hunting.

So I'm back at the office.

He walks in, pretty much exactly as you'd think he'd look. Black on black on black.

I started by asking him if he knew why his parents were so concerned. He was fully aware that they saw him as a ticking bomb. In fact, he took pleasure in that role. It empowered him. His parents weren't the only people who saw him as a potential threat. He said he had heard the same thind, directly or indirectly, from his teachers and classmates. "Freak" and "psycho".

"So do you think that there is an appeal to something like that? I mean, is there a temptation for yo to fulfill that?" I asked.

"I can't tell you that. If I talked about wanting to hurt people, you'd have to report it to the cops", he replied.

"Actually that's kind of a gray area", I answered. "Technically speaking, there's a relatively fine line between mandatory reporting and therapist privilege. It's even more nebulous in this particular instance. Your father is a attorney, correct? More importantly, your father is YOUR attorney - he represented you when you vandalized the school last year, right? There was a case a few years ago, New Jersey I think, that found that psychologists contracted to evaluate a client by that client's attorney now fell under the attorney-client privilege and were not legally required to report past of future acts of violence or abuse. It's probably splitting hairs, but I'd be in as much trouble for not reporting anything as I would if I actually did report it. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can just talk about it in hypotheticals - you hypothetically thought about taking a gun to school - that sort of thing."

He seem a little confused.

"What kind of therapist are you?" he asked.

"The kind that's been around long enough to know that you're probably going to do what you want to do regardless of how well I do my job".

So he talked about "hypothetically" buying a gun from a kid at school who "hypothetically" stole it from his father. He wasn't planning on doing anything with it per se. He just liked the way it felt in his hand. Cold, substantial, powerful. He was oppressed, after all. Picked on at school. Beat up on a fairly regular basis. So sure, it crossed his mind to take the gun to school, "hypothetically". But he doubted he would ever do anything with it.

"I guess there's one thing I don't get", I stated. "School shootings, aside from being totally passe, actually accomplish the opposite effect of what the killer is trying to accomplish".

"What do you mean", he asked.

"Well, these kids take their guns into school and shoot up the people that have somehow wronged them - the bullies, the girl that jilted them, the teacher that gave them an F. Or they shoot up the place thinking that they'll somehow gain some eternal infamy. But what actually happens is that they martyr the people they mean to harm while they themselves become soon-to-be-forgotten footnotes. The victims will get plaques, statues, posthumous book deals, while the killer gets a few days of the press talking about what a loser freak he was. I just don't see how that's anything that anyone would want. Especially if they're willing to kill themselves to do it.
He shook his head. "That's not true. People remember the school shooters", he responded.
"Really now?" I said. "Let's try an experiment. I'm going to give you some homework. You ask 20 random people to try to name the person who shot those kids at Virginia Tech, or the kid that shot his classmates in Arkansas or Columbine. Heck, see if they know the name of the kid who shot up the mall in Omaha. That was just last week. If 20% of the people you ask know them, then I'll get you out of your counseling sessions".
He came back two days later. One person knew Robert Hawkins from Omaha and three knew Klebold & Harris from Columbine.
"So what does that tell you?" I asked.
He thought his answer would startle me. "It tells me that if I want to be infamous, I (hypothetically) need to kill even more people."
"Wrong" I said. "If the goal of this 'hypothetical' school shooter is to be remembered, then he needs to forget about the quantity of his (hypothetical) victims and start thinking about the quality of his victims. These killers have just targeted innocent people. Like I said last time, that's totally passe. But if you (hypothetically) want to be remembered when you go out in your blaze of glory, why not take out those that deserve it in the process?"
He sat up straighter in his chair.
I continued. "Take child molesters for example. They have all these laws that prohibit them from living within so many yards of a school, playground, etc. So they end up clustered in these little shitty apartment complexes filled with their own kind. They're easy to find. All you have to do is look in the online database and check for a bunch that have the same address. If someone were to (hypothetically) shoot a place like that up instead of their school, then they'd be remembered. Forget being called a loser freak. They'd call that person a hero. A vigilante. A martyr for justice".
Seeds of thought began sprouting in his head.
I didn't stop. "And it probably wouldn't stop there. There would be copycats. Maybe even an entire movement. If a person were to do something like that? They'd be remembered. Revered even".
There was a minute of silence between us.
From there, the conversation gradually segued into his grades, his relationship with his parents, his friends, etc. But I could tell that the seeds were taking root.

It won't happen today. It probably won't happen next month. But it's going to happen. I'm certain of it.