The Abandoned Exile Piece

I had one of two choices. An either or. The trick was in choosing the one more to my advantage.

I knew I needed to cut down, but seeing him was my license.

Now it was only to decide. Do I stop for a drink before? Hospitals make me uneasy, it’s depressing.

Never mind the drink, I really need to practice. Although it was buried under a pile of coats, the piano at Coco’s would suit my purpose.

Do I stop for a drink afterwards? It’s so sad. A few drinks after and it would seem as if the whole scene were under museum glass. Seen, but not exactly felt.

Would Coco have anything to drink? Unlikely.

Drinks after the fact. That way I could have more than those that would come before.

The nurses always looked at me strangely. It didn’t fit the picture, I wasn’t nice enough to be here visiting. It should be someone, but not me. Ah, it’s all so sad.

We were towards the end. His. I hated to see him go. At the end of every visit I felt that I should try to say something meaningful. With effort I was able to keep it up for three visits.

Towards the end he became convinced that he had accidentally become God, or a top agent of him.

I don’t know who else he may have told.

Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night. My heart would pound. Sharp angled shadows staring down at my bed in hostility. What if he was right? Either way he couldn’t lose, he could afford to be wrong.

I tried to be good, at least to him. I want to be bad. I’m honest about it though and in that there is a purity.

Just to hedge my bets though I was good to him.

Ah, it’s all so sad.

I think the nurses were trying to mess with me. After every visit they would put him in a bigger bed.

Now, this, what will probably be our last visit, he appeared a tiny-tired doll swimming in a sea of institution white sheets.

I sat besides him, hunting through the blankets for his hand.

He smiled.

I didn’t want to be impolite, but I stared. Lord, is that you?

The sound of his labored breathing was distressing. It probably wasn’t as loud as it seemed.

That stale smell, brackish water in a vase of flowers someone thought to bring.

Any minute now I was going to start to perspire. Don’t let my eyes be wide, he didn’t need all that. To worry about my discomfort on what was his time.

He wanted to talk. The sun made it so that his eyes were two slits, he was there though, behind.

I had to lean in close. He hadn’t been shaved yet today and little threads of silver stood at attention on both cheek and chin.

“It was good of you to come.”

“I wanted to.”

The words seemed a labor I hated to have him make, but he wanted to.

“What shall I do to make you believe?”

What do I say to that? His eyes closed.

As if just remembering something his eyes snapped open.

“I will make it rain.”

Teeth together he gave a little grunt.

In a steady, almost soothing rhythm the rain threw itself against the glass of the windows. We sat there, listening to the tapping, holding hands.

It was time for me to go. Dry lips pressed against my cheek.

A nod.

Faust’s

There used to be a piano here. Sometimes to show off I would knock out a couple of numbers. I played, but badly, so all my drinks came in a dirty glass.

The piano is gone, but the ritual remains.

The place is only half full. The Hula sits by herself. Now, she hates me, but once in awhile she forgets and we fuck.

Her place is all knic-knacs. Orphans of other people’s passions. She has this old globe, countries’ colors and names faded away. France pops out so that she can hide love notes in the hollow belly of the world.

Today she likes me.

We talk. We wash away the day with bourbon.

Slowly people start to come in. Some of them wet and complaining.

I don’t mind the rain.

Snow.

It’s snow that reminds me of death.

Pierrot Lunaire

The light has woken me, kept me up.

The scratchy voice of the radio. To avoid waking her, her and that artificial silence which would be exhausting, I must keep it low. Too low to be of any use.

The moon. Even without heat, it has baked everything into a stillness. The hour, the light. The city, a stage set after the matinee.

Unsteady on my feet I go to the window. The gaze of the moon. I am unsettled.

Look.

It weighs everything down, painted with iridescent words of your accusations.

I am vindicated by this stillness, the color. You are not for me.

If I am quiet, I could sneak downstairs, past the shop with its carnival masks and votives, using the light of the moon to see my way clear.

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