Sunday morning coming down.
The world in celebration of my birth. My party everywhere I go. The people calm and silent. A skinny guy with shaved head walking a pit bull—his eye huge and black and swollen shut. His wife beater is covered in brick red blood and his voice is fragile in the early morning. The back of his head is cut up and bloody—freshly beaten—he becomes healed as he walks (God let it be so).
Miraculous that I have had breakfast on a city street. Gold in front of me and in my belly, syrup and fresh orange juice to offset fresh beatings.
Last night I played bingo and won a Buddha in a “Chinese Basket,” your new God, they said. My hands still stamped red and blue. Last night I drove into darkness trying to find a place once whispered to me, Pushaw Lake, and did not find it. Got to the point of thinking, I’ll pull over at the next church I see. A church will surely give me good will. White Baptist next to Pushaw stream that must somewhere connect to where I wanted to be. I listened to Morphine on the stereo advise, “Do not go blindly into your grave,” as I traveled in circles on highways marked with “Blind Person” signs I hoped would tell me the way. I slept with dreams that were someone else’s, not mine—with a sticky face, cramped in the car. Kept waking to numb legs heavy and dead I tried to shake life into, running legs unable to tolerate lack of circulation. I was right next to the stream and it was loud loud. I woke up to a gray 5 in the morning and thought it was raining because of the stream sound but then saw that my broken windshield was dry. I woke before dawn to a dead leg, fog, and orange light behind me and thought I was witnessing my first East Coast sunrise, but it was only a streetlamp I had forgotten about. At 6 I got out and went across the dew grass, thinking of how I should have fearlessly pitched my tent in the churchyard. I found a small fire pit next to a rusted brown slab of car skeleton and thought, someone else believes in the goodwill churches should provide. I saw that I was in a patch of wild strawberries, and said to myself, “Happy Birthday,” as I picked the tiny berries and tasted their sweetness, a two year old again lost in a world consisting only of a Suncrest strawberry patch. Followed by a procession of mosquitoes, I went down to the stream and baptized myself in the fast running water, cleansing my face and hair and feet and hands.