crackheadcastle

[crackheadcastle]

The Eye Building

The hands of the clock are spinning like a Devils tail unwinding certain voodoo. For some reason I think of chihuahua hostages and wolfhound kissers embraced in mock joy. My forehead wrinkles look like the treads of a car tire as I think very deeply.  

Asses pumping for money in the sun. Chain link fences stream by. Spring foliage offers its shade on the sidewalks. Bicycle bones hug stop sign poles, clutching certain street drift.

Charlie and I went to the 99 cent store to get sunglasses. I got a gardeners hat to help hide my face from passersbys. Now we’re walking around, scoping out the Eye building here at the edge of Clinton Hill & Bed Stuy. The street feels abandoned, possibly watched by the police. We tried the door which was slightly agape but it was held back by a rope or chain from within. Charlie had an idea. All he needed to do was gesture softly to the grate on the sidewalk with his black marble hand as if to present a game show prize. I nodded. A train rumbled by beneath us again. Warmish air sighed from the grate making the pores of our face swell and fill with humid micro-dust.

Kite high, we leapt down the street. Bouncing like Tiggers, springboard walking, challenging the margin of our problems. At the stairwell entrance to the train I pull out $5 in quarters for a mta swipe. Charlie ducks the turnstile, goddamned asshole.. we walk out onto the platform without any intention of boarding the train. We walk slowly, pensively, patiently along between strangers thumbing their phones and deaf with headphone jacks. The A train comes howling in and stops with a squeal. Charlie and I are at the end of the platform. I am perusing in jest a grocery store flyer for produce special while platform standers usher into the train doors.

Once the train takes off and the small hoard of folks are pattering toward the street bound stairs, Charlie and I jump down between the tracks with an immediate jog into the tunnel.

How many blocks is it? ‘3’ says Charlie. The 40 watt lights pass us one by one, left and right. It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be down here, feels rather cool and earthy.  I guess we could have counted our steps to the train in order to field our way back to the Eye Building’s (below), but all that turned out to be unnecessary. There was a metal door on the left of the tunnel in near total darkness. Charlie is great at seeing in the dark, he pointed it out. We stood for a moment, taking it all in. The faint rumbling of daily trains. The salamander odor. Moisture that will never recover to dryness ever again. Rat trails of candy wrappers, chewed up milk containers and black plastic bags.

“This is it, Charlie.” I said, before pushing the metal door in that blackness open. We stepped out of the tunnel and into a tomb like experience. We dragged our feet along trying to bump into anything that would explain our boundaries. We fumbled over a couple broken chairs and a table with what felt like cans of house paint on top. “Hey! Charlie, did we forget that little flashlight?”, “Nope.” He replied with a deep giggle. The small light clicked on. I rolled my eyes. Another train was coming so I shut the metal door and leaned a broken chair against it for now. The ground seems to bubble with the weight of this passing train and I can’t hear what Charlie’s saying with all the metal on metal racket, his bright white eyes pop against the darkness…

“Damn…” Says Charlie dramatically. We blinked at the very cavernous space. A dirt floor basement with large, nearly boulder sized rocks plating the walls. They’re visibly wet from whatever’s leaking in from the dirt of the past. We search for another doorway, some other passage. Our little light isn’t bright enough to see everything at once as we search.

A trap door above. I make a sling out of my hands for Charlie to step into and up. With a grunt he pushes and punches the trap door. It’s locked. He keeps hitting. My sling fingers burn a little. The rusty hinges begin to break and the door thingy goes ‘flap’ as it’s laid over in relief. Suddenly we can see the light and ceiling in the room above. Charlie climbs up and then helps me through the passage quite easily.

We’re in what looks like a church. The pews, dust covered, the walls are peeling back at least two generations of painting efforts. Murals of some kind of Second Coming of Jesus scenario, cheaply done once a time is faded behind a fairly rotten podium still hoisting the swollen pages of a bible. Various items of clothing, men’s, women’s and children’s lay in spotty piles in the pews. Jewelry and pocket change, a heart monitor with it’s wires and mess.

It’s as if who ever was here simply evaporated. Charlie showed me his goose bumps. “What dee fuck, man?” He said. I looked around in mild disbelief. I knew a little about certain religous sects but this was strange indeed. Perhaps it’s staged. Who knows. There’s a broken window looking south with some duct tape and twisting cardboard trying in vain to keep out the weather. Below this window a small oak tree has begun growing from a crack in the floor. Dollar bills and napkins can be seen tussled below the pews. “They disappeared?” Asked Charlie.

We go up stairs from the church, there’s an office and two bedrooms with shaky bunk beds. The dressers are empty. The office is pretty much stripped except for the desk and old swivel chair. The tin filing cabinets sound like trashy drums as I spank them in jest. The ceiling dons evidence of the leaky roof above.

“I think it’ll work!” I announce. No power or running water. We’ll have to figure out some details. Certainly, this will be an upgrade form the BQE and the Buick I’ve been camped out in for a while.

I watch as Charlie splays out in one of the lower bunk beds and pretends to snore.

[crackheadcastle]

Chessboard fatality

If ignorance is bliss there’s no wonder why the world is so filled with happiness.

Garbage trucks start around 5:30 am. You can swallow the sound of their dinosaur gears growling up and down the street in search for your household waste. I’ve heard some say that profit is usually thrown out blindly - wood shavings on the saw mill floor, returnable aluminum cans, the copper tubing in that discarded refrigerator. Thrift stores make millions every year on donated or discarded clothing. I wish I owned a slew of storage unit buildings.

Today, I’m sitting in the park at one of those concrete chess tables. I’ve picked up some sticky notes and have an arrangement of scenarios, plans, and schematics - all tagged to various chess positions. With two bottle caps from the ground, Charlie and I take turns trying to beat each other to the other side without landing on one of the ominous notes.

We’re talking about creating a meeting house for Honey Maker. We are gonna need a space to work and stay out of sight for a while. The little church building we saw yesterday donning the painted eye above the door seems like our best option. However, it’s also two blocks from where the accident was. The experience of an anxiety hang-over is different from anything chemically induced.

Like, knowledge of a buried body and can’t remember what happened yet. There’s a deep sense of knowing that it will be only a matter of time before  the police figure things out and find you… probably innocently checking out at the grocery store or brushing your teeth at the water fountain at the kiddie park - ‘Hey! Thats him! Get ‘em!’.  .... Loud sound of boots approaching, swinging cuffs.

It’s very difficult to destroy the sound of your biggest secrets. Even the pigeons will pick up on the loudspeaker bleating between your ears. Women will notice the shiftiness, too.

The accident has me shook. I’ve begun walking much slower, realizing my ignorance of Death.

Doubling down on blending in - this is my plan for now. Gotta be super careful.

With bitmapped enthusiasm, Charlie and I smile knowing that we intend on never dying.

It’s all in your breathing right? We all have a certain number of breaths before we croak, so we’re gonna take our time and relax.

[crackheadcastle]

Getting Away.

Saturday, early evening.

Charlie and I have been grinding on this idea of starting a business all afternoon. Many of our ideas are pie-in-the-sky. Both of us really like the name HoneyMaker. We even played around with spelling it differently. Honeymaaker. Or, Honeymkr. Charlie likes how the name sounds like Money Maker. To that point I winked at him. “It’s like a think tank, ya’know..”

We figured that we should get a P.O. Box to start. Charlie said he would look into filing the name with the local municipalities, his shaky, near illegible handwriting already taking notes. I was so excited, practically jumping up and down. It’ll be a business of businesses! An amoeba! The sense of how ridiculous all of my ideas were did not register as a reason to stop and think. We would start out, Charlie and I, with glow-in-the-dark menus for restaurants all over the city, we would create retainer style accounts as consultants. Charlie suggested we use Craigslist to find a silk screen person to print the glowing ink on top of the menu lettering. Maybe we could do a special wax treatment to the paper menu’s to make them last longer. We talked about what we should wear as our own personal branding. And, what about an office !?

There’s already much work to be done. I figured for a cheap enough space somewhere that we could set up a telephone. Yes, a land line with a 212 area code, very professional. “What about location?” Asked Charlie. We had to take a bike ride to do some scouting.. Up and down Metropolitan, Manhattan Ave, Greenpoint Ave. We rode for almost two hours hunting for vacant space, for rent signs, etc. Abandoned looking pet stores, laundry spots long since closed up, a couple furniture stores and a bodega which looked like it never recovered from being a crime scene. In the end of our ride we found an old church down in Hill Stuy across from some abandoned brownstones. The facade was basic, no windows, just a door, everything painted brown. Lots of graffiti layered into and on top of the thick skinned brown latex paint. What stood out and caught our attention was the hand painted eye with little lines reaching from the bottom lid above the door and street tags.

“It’s perfect, man.” Said Charlie as he rolled up another spliff. “Yea, we gotta look into how the hell we gonna rent this baby!” I said. “I hope it’s cheap as it looks.” Just then the rumbling of a train below us. The A,C line. Both of us peered into the grate half covered with street garbage and car tire trying to perceive the actual passing train cars. Nothing but rowdy darkness down there.

“We gonna hafta make some more money to start Honey Maker, ya know that, right?” Charlie says to me. This is a bristling truth that I do not like. Time to get my salesman hat to wear for a bit. Now that I think of it, I could also use some salesman shoes as well, cause mine are a little stinky. I resist getting into an argument with Charlie about keeping a regular job. We both know it’s not really worth it. A better way to make money is to work for yourself which takes a different level of effort, that’s all.

Geeked out and beaming, we take off. I explain my plan to go door to door with the glow-in-the-dark menu idea to generate some sales - tonight! No need to wait. Charlie remarked that I must have been touched by Gawd hisself when I was a baby. Our chit-chat was covered in possibilities which kept lifting our spirits.

I could really see it. The newspaper headline: ‘Homeless Guy Launches Million Dollar Biz’. I gripped the crappy ten speed bike handles making the dry rot rubber squirm. My sense of control was present. Being in awe - is how I would best describe the sensation. Who knew how basic it is to simply deign the future you really want? I’ve been so conflicted for years and up to this point I’ve been my own worst enemy in not making things happen. I began to see that I am the only person responsible for how my life goes.

At the next intersection Charlie and I stopped on our bikes in waiting to cross the street. I didn’t realize that Charlie’s front tire was sticking out as it was and that it might pose an issue for the traffic. I told him to pull back a little. Instead, Charlie lurched with a hop onto his pedals to cross quickly. A car was coming at the same time which honked angrily, made a true New York stop - which is more like a pause, before attempting to make the corner while giving me a pointed scowl and middle finger.

Another car - an suv, was approaching fast, perpendicular to our new offended gentleman whose lurching front end was just in time to be struck - K’POW! Charlie could barely swing his face around to witness all this. The on coming car struck and jumped into a twist. The bottom of the vehicle revealed itself to me with aching grace as I was almost struck in the face by one of the tires. I didn’t notice the long bleating horn of the cork-screwing car before it landed openly in the street, on Grand Ave, on it’s top, with a moist crash and embarrassed spray of tempered glass across the pavement.

Some other people saw this happen, a concerted “Whoah!!” came from another street corner. “Holy Shit!”

I stood in shock, right where I was. What a perfect storm! My heart sank into my stomach as I considered that I had just been part of a serious accident. The driver of the pissed off car got out screaming: “You! Hey!”

Other’s from the street corner darkness came out to help what looked like a woman in the flipped suv. Everything seemed to stop and take on a cinematic decent into reality. All the tv shows and movies I’d seen growing up started to flicker by as I fished for a course of action. “This is your fault, pal!” Yelled the angry driver. He had got out and was getting in my face. “Lemme see your ID.”, “Um, I don’t have one.”, “What!? Are you crazy? C’mon.. don’t bullshit me.. show me some information, there’s no way I’m eating this situation on my own tonight. You shitty bike riders are always in the way!! What’s your name?” Demanded this upset fellow.

This is the moment in life we’re all waiting for, the moment where morality and workability clash, where responsibility surges into view like a burning ocean in which to cross on a leaky rowboat. I said nothing at first, I was trying to slow down time, I needed to come to a sensible answer, especially since the police would be here soon. I could already hear the firetrucks loopy whine start up across the neighborhood. More people came out to help the driver of the flipped suv. The woman was saying something… maybe she was ok.

What would I say to the police? I had been partly to cause this insane car accident. My adrenaline was already high, I could feel it. I may get arrested. Who knows. How am I gonna pay for this? I was caught in the headlights of American insurance claims, attorneys and a lawsuit concerning bodily injury. I really don’t know how I’m gonna get through this.

“Let’s wait for the police -“ I say repeatedly. “I need to sit down.” The angry driver blocks me. “No - you can stay right here.”

Fuck,…. fuck, fuck fuck, fuck. Goes my mind. My dream of being some kind of under dog entreprenuer looks like a shredded teddybear on the floor right now, white puff and stitches still swirling in the air by it’s assailant.

Where’s Charlie I wonder.. “Hey, did you see my friend? The other guy on a bike with me?” The angry driver is inspecting his car, the damage is pretty bad. The sound of a police siren begins to howl into range of this scene.

I put my bike down and scan for Charlie. I pick up the bike and walk it across the street without the pissed off guy noticing too much. “They’re gonna arrest you - know that?” Snarled the man. This scared me alright.

This was my chance which seemed like a hollow moment for sure. If I get caught running, everything will be 10 times worse. Fleeing the scene of an accident sounded like a terrible idea, yet, I couldn’t bear to face the circumstances otherwise. I was in trouble alright.

“Charlie!?” I whispered heavily. “Charlie!? Where the hell are you?”

Under the darkness of a tree near the corner I found myself outside the situation. The lights of the police arrived, a firetruck and it’s crew out kneeling down and talking to the woman possibly trapped inside her vehicle. I could hear the voice of the upset man he was barking about some kid on a bike that caused the whole thing to happen. Damn. Guilty until proven innocent!

Ambiguity straddled my mind, my thoughts. They don’t know who you are. It’s their word versus theirs. Etc.

Quickly I jumped on my crappy ten speed and started to ride off. Weightless with adrenaline. A cold reptilian glare watched me as I left, the eyes of guilt burned into the back of my head. This was not one of my proudest moments to date. However, I could not stand by idle and allow the thirsty jaws of predictable American failure chew me up and shit me out of it’s system.

I had to reach down into myself and wield the very same shaky, draconian, logic that feeds the ‘system’ in order to escape certain doom. I’d rather bear the baggage of this one than face the music tonight.

My folly is virtue. We all are beautiful liars when the moment chooses us.

I got away.

Quickly I rode my rusty bike towards the anonymous streets ahead. 

Through one neighborhood and then another where I figured it’d be best to dump the wheels. I had gotten far enough away but was still shook by the insanity of what just happened. First, I was almost killed. Second, I was being blamed for the incident by the only other person in the wreck, the only witness. My face was a little numb with all the prospects of how this all ends. Each police car that stood idle street side or looped around any block had my fullest attention. I worked on what I might say in the event they discover me.  I kept thinking of Honey Maker to distract myself from looking shady or paranoid.

Later on, I flower stepped back to the Buick under the bqe - like slowly backing out of a thick garden bed on my haunches, careful not to disturb or crush root, branch or leaves.

To my dismay I found that someone had written ‘HA HA’ on the windshield. The layer of grey dust still crumbling off where a finger had recently completed it’s painterly stroke. Charlie?

Climbing into the car, I’m greeted by the familiar dankness of sweaty chinese food containers mixed with ‘Ocean Breeze’ air fresheners I piked up the other day.

Restless. Watching cars pass. Admiring the chainlink fence with tortured razor wire guarding the auto mechanics yard. Next to the garage is a red tour bus and the face of it is ripped open or smashed open, all the way to the second or third seat. Did the bus hit a low hanging bridge? I couldn’t help wondering how many must have died in the bus’s accident. Maybe it was from a couple years ago when I heard one tipped over while speeding in leaving for Boston.

Nobody got hurt tonight, right? Charlie must have gone home. He often disappears without warning.

[crackheadcastle]

Will work for fun.

Time is an illusion some say, however I can’t seem to shake the fact that time’s running away like an abused pet searching for a better home, for better treatment.

Another grayish day. It’s cold enough to warrant me donning that crappy orange winter jacket again. New England seasons are often unpredictable, esp in May. I’ve seen it snow in late May before.

I blew off the massage parlor chop shop gig for a couple days and I doubt that I’m going back. Fingering the few hundred dollars in the pocket I stashed away, my confidence is hovering about knee high. I’ve a sense of some momentum and need to figure out another way to make money. Sticking with things has never been a strong suit of mine although I’ve always been a prolific starter. Since waking up in the graveyard last month I’ve done some hard thinking about what’s possible, about the beauty of my so-called circumstances.

I can think, I can wait, I can fast.

For an hour I watch the birds hop about the newly spring greened tree branches against the zombie grey sky. I listen to their thrilled throats expressing love, harmony, team work. I imagine myself as a bird, too. Pecking about this urban rubble, out for a variety of opportunities having to do with food, shelter, and warmth. I notice that I don’t tweet very much when it comes to the team work squabble. I seem to be a loner birdie. Whenever one of my feathered friends chirps: “responsibility”, I loudly chirp: “Cat! look out!”, then we all flutter away and forget about our work for the moment.

This thought pisses me off a bit. How is it that we don’t show up as we see ourselves in the mind? What childish demon controls the levers here? I don’t see myself as a crappy bird but this is my track record of showing up in the face of things. I let this go. I smile inwardly. The old me is dead. Jasper Fawkes is here now. He doesn’t know about time with it’s dripping reaper sickle. He doesn’t even know about death. No, Jasper’s numb with the spirit of Buddha light. He knows how to ascend to the 5th dimension simply by connecting the dots of people, places and things. The only thing that terrifies Jasper is the idea of being too comfortable. It’s important to experience pain.

Hungry, I head for the corner store and decide to go find Charlie. Time for a bike ride in a bit.

Crushed a cheap roast beef sandwich somewhere in Bed Stuy. All the bodegas’ bathrooms say the same thing on the outside: “Not, working. Out of Order.” I get used to the stank left behind by the others who come to steal toilet paper and wash up.

I find Charlie down on Lexington, a quiet enough street where nobody’s paying much attention. “Yooo, man.., what’s been good?” He says in jagged Nigerian American style. Before we roll out on our shitty bikes, we roll up a joint and savor the moment. It’s Friday, the evening is on it’s way.

“Let’s head north..” I say. Charlie laughs at my commanding call. “I wanna follow my gut, there’s an idea waiting to be found in Williamsburg!”

“Really?” Charlie says.. he’s so indifferent, but I know he’ll dig the girls walking about. We set out, slowly, careful not to overload our poor ten speeds and their rotten tires.

The sun sets somewhere in the west behind the gaunt evening’s ceiling of clouds now percolating with the bright twinkles jumping from the windows of city skyscrapers. People are out and about. They look lost. Charlie and I watch as they follow their glowing cell phones behind one another. “Be Hear Now.” I say to Charlie. “you want a beer?” He replies, knowing my way of thinking and making fun. “Naw, c’mon. Let’s keep going. I’m looking for problems.”, “Why you so serious, man?” Charlie asks. I don’t answer his question directly.

“I need money to do some bigger things in life. I need to establish trust with people again. All the money in the world is wrapped up in problems. Just look for yourself: from Parking Tickets to Plastic Surgery. Find a good problem to solve or create a new one and we can unlock sweet usury gratitude, my brother.”

Charlie is quiet in thought. “Damn. You right.”

“Shit is simple if you make it so.” I say. “I had a vision while watching some chirping birds this afternoon. I need a team to get things done. I have many brilliant ideas that I don’t know what to do with. I’ve had lots of money before, I’ve also been broke and struggling while attempting to rule one empire or another. At this point in my life, I’m ready to die. I can die happy knowing that I’m on the right path. If I’m to create personal success again I want to point myself in a direction where I can truly make a difference in the world.”

“Jasper, man. Let’s stop and roll another joint. My feet too tired from these rusty bike pedals.”, “Ok,” I said, “let’s drop our bikes by the park and walk.”

So then we walked along without a plan. Looking, listening, thinking. The smells of food pouring out from restaurants distract us. We had walked a bit further than anticipated I suppose, all the way down to the Williamsburg Bridge. “Let’s walk down to the water..” suggested Charlie. There was a construction site with an open chain link fence gap we could see. I trotted up along some steps of another restaurant with a great view of the bridge and I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked inside. People were huddled over their menus in quite a bit of darkness. They were struggling to read the menus, using their brightly lit cell phone screens to try reading the specials, bumping into their water glasses as they went bout all this. It all looked clumsy to me. A great idea came to me!

“Charlie, wait up..” I say and catch up excitedly. “I got it! Check this out! how cool would it be to have glow in the dark ink in the lettering of restaurant menus?” He smiled. “That’s fucking awesome, man. But, how you gonna do that?” I paused to think as he ducked into the open fence. “I need a team I suppose.. I can talk to some restaurants! I bet they’ll love the idea.. I know it’s a bit of work just for menu’s but the guests will appreciate it.”

“No doubt Jasper. No doubt.” I duck into the fence as well. “You gonna start a company er something?”, “Yea..” I say, half under my breath. “Well, what you gonna call it?” said Charlie, teasing, not entirely believing me yet. I think about teams of monkeys who get shit done, bird collectives, even bears and their little clans. Bears like honey, right?

Who makes the honey?

Bees do. They transform nectar into honey.

Kind of how the alchemists of the middle ages spent so much time learning to transform the elements, I can transform anything into gold!

“I’m gonna call this new enterprise: Honeymkr!”

Charlie is grinning at me…

[crackheadcastle]

Lost.

Feels like I was in a car accident. My left hand is pulsing trying to repair what appears to be a big bruise in the palm, between the middle and ring finger knuckles. My neck seems to have been jerked or hit as well. It’s excruciating to turn my head one way or the other. I can’t open my eyes yet. I’m not ready to take responsibility for not remembering much from the previous day. God Dammit. I murmur over and over.

Listening. I don’t hear the sound of the BQE. Actually the sound of cars is relatively distant. I swear that I can hear a weed-whacker or string trimmer zipping up the needle tops of grassy leaves, maybe a few thousand feet away. Strange. Am I still in the city? I detect grass under my body, my exposed chilly hands, my fingers scratch into the mesh of swirling roots and moist dirt.

Covered in.. water, piss, morning dew ? I’m not quite soaked, however wet enough for the gentle breeze to make me shiver.

Eyes still closed. Quickly and without much choice, I begin to retrace what I can remember.

Riding the train. Avoiding the off and on rain showers of the afternoon. Sitting through all the stops. The A, the E, took the 2 and 3 trains for a while. Enjoying the long grey heavy walks between transfers. Sitting with my leg crossed until it fell asleep, crossing the other. Masterfully blending in. Winning my game of hiding out in plain sight. No one knows I’m homeless, right? Don’t mind me, just a bubble of water skirting across a pond of olive oil.

Who was I talking to? So much chatter, yet I don’t recall a face returning any words. Fashionista girls, groomed eye-brows, retail queens, ear buds in - looking down at phones, men, gay men, black men, hoodies, kids clutching phones, ritual duck-duck-goose eye contact games, Hasid’s & Muslim’s, holy books, advertisements for food. If you see something, say something. Thousands of human beings wrapped in vague togetherness. The only thing uniting us is a blanket of paranoia.

I think I got dizzy at one point. I was playing my game of being invisible. Dressed nicely as I could, hiding some food stains on my sleeve.. I went to work with everyone, though I never got off at any stop to actually exit. I tagged along with your babysitter bringing the coughing child to the doctor. I lazily hung out while you went to your mid-day jobs in the city, at Macy’s, Target, Bloomingdale’s. Through the hours where the other homeless folk clamored about and I straightened out my own neck tie as if to emphasize purpose, I sat riding the train. My fake smile has been hurting my cheeks. Looking in the reflection of the dark train window I see my projected optimism has been reduced to a tortured grin, happiness barely detectable.  The ‘fake it till ya make it’ wore off I guess. What was I hoping to accomplish? To meet a girl? To share my story? To be heard? Who ever I thought I was fooling, I remember becoming very upset towards. Eternal sunshine sloughs away, leaving a bed of poignancy behind that some might call manic depression. I got locked into a dark staring contest with myself.

Sleep deprived, thirsty, hungry. I had a moment where I thought anger would push me through to some miracle. The faces of my family back home, fantasies of hanging up the phone on them, of showing up in the middle of the night with flashlights to take care of my garden long ago abandoned. I remember relishing the thought of keeping my father in mystery as to how those plants seemed to be so well taken care of. With grinding teeth and sick grey eyes, my mental snarling must have emanated some kind of sound. I didn’t dare close my eyes. Keep up appearances you goddamned fool! Looking good is my only ladder left. I thought of clever ways to punish myself, to accidentally break a finger and let it heal all crooked. I thought of going home again, unrecognizable to my own tribe, tanned by grime, beautifully scented by neglect, hair long, twisted into braids, wearing a nurses mask to protect them from my facial a.i.d.s.

Now I remember… I finally gave into one giant blink, like a clear membrane that covered my eyes before I felt ready to bite.

Listening. Things sounded like, underwater, for a moment. The train’s clacking, smacking, squeal took on a muffled occasion.

Looking. The train was suddenly empty, a violet hue had taken over.

Feeling. Lightness of being, a strange calm, someone or thing just stopped the heavy metal which was playing in my head. The train seemed to be going express, like a raped ape, faster than usual.

Down by my feet, I noticed a percolating glow which grabbed my focus. ‘It’ seemed to be rising. Yes. I remember this much. A glowing orb no larger than an orange rose straight up out of the train floor in front of me. I couldn’t tell if it was spinning or what. The orb paused at eye level and seemed to be watching me! Then, little blue & red tendrils began leaking out of the bottom of this thing, stretching out into the air, towards the floor. The humming sound like a tuning fork emitted….

I recognized these thin lace fibers dangling from the ball of light: apparently a nervous system, perhaps human..

A woman’s voice began from the light: “Hey, shit-head. Do you know that voice inside your noggin always telling you what to do?”

I whispered yes, mesmerized.

The woman’s voice: “That’s not you talking! Yet, it’s all you are listening to. Go find out for yourself what the mind chatter is all about.”

“What?” I said. The tendrils of nerves vanished. The orb was moving away, down the train. I got up to follow. I wanted to put this light in my mouth to keep it. Hypnotized, I walked behind slowly. As the orb went to leave via the closed speeding train door I still followed and bumped blindly into the dark glass sparking a pain in the nose which must have actually woke me up.

Seeing. Strap hangers all around me. Some staring at me. “You ok there, buddy?” Said someone.

Realizing that I must have fallen asleep and pissed myself on public transit my first instinct was to jump up at the next stop. Without any clue what time it was, where in New York I must have been. All I remember is running down the subway stairs and falling at the bottom like a confused pigeon who has heard the sound of thunder after lightning for the first time.

Scampering along streets, numbers, avenues all a blur. I remember seeking sanctuary. The nights drizzle seemed to be waning.

I now recall coming to a quiet place, a stone wall and spear tipped fences. I made it into the cemetery and took off my shoes. I wondered along a field of granite stone memories with a new blindness.

Was the orb real? - I thought, as I found a nook which seemed safe enough. More headstones at the bottom between two hills to protect me from being seen. I knew I was gonna pass out from exhaustion.

Is anything more real than a field of vibrating particles observing themselves. Reality is a perverted enterprise!

Curling up unconscious to the hurt hand and soon to ache neck. I began to doze. I slept so hard that I drooled. I didn’t mind my dry gasping breathing that left my teeth feeling like wooden icicles.

—

Finally, I dare to open my eyes and view the baby blue sky above. Cloudless.

Sitting up, I hadn’t noticed the name yet behind me on the gravestone: Jasper Fawkes.

[crackheadcastle]

UV Lights.

There was trouble at the massage parlor today. I came in early to find out that Sammy was screwing the receptionist George and he quit after she insulted him by comparing his whiny personality to that of her father. People sure don’t like to be judged!

I jumped in on answering the phone to hold the fort down. Booked a few appointments for Sammy and a couple asked to come in for 3pm. Walk-ins. I got busy too, back to back massages without much food to work on. Sweating. It damn hot in the rooms. The twinkling new age music playing foff youtube rom a laptop in the closet. Got dizzy. Had to watch my steps.

K came in late as usual. She sat in the back room, a heap of her own exhaustion until the next customer would arrive. I could hear the crunching sound of cheez-it’s that is K’s routine snack as I massaged some lady’s neck, careful not to disturb the wig.

The phone kept ringing. Sammy kept popping out of her customers room to deal with loose ends of the moment. Next thing you know I’m in a couples massage with K.

Flutes, distant waterfalls, rain, a lazy percussion of oily hands slap, push and pull. Little groans and tense sighs from this couple. The guy has a humpback and I watch K work around it. The guy’s wife is sensitive, she’s winces when I rub down her calves. Probably stings. More vague confusion about how much time for this massage. K tells me it’s 75 minutes in a whisper. I swore it was 60. It’s time for the ghetto style facial with rocks heated up in the microwave. I play it all off with inventive spirit, imagining how people would do this to each other at Burning Man all puffed up on molly. Finally it was done. Quadruple gratitude and stepping out from the heated chamber. Gulping water before plopping down at the desk up front.

I charged the grinning couple for the time and they tipped heavily!

K came out after they left. “They had a 60 minute massage.. we over charged..” Blinking looks, back and forth. “Here, so - change the numbers in the book..” She said.

Looked like K and I picked up an extra $40 for our mistake. Wait. What’s happening? This is a very sly hustle on K’s part, I realize. Something feels super shady. Sammy comes out. She hears everything that’s said because the gaps between the room walls and ceiling.

“What going on?” Sammy started barking questions. K squabbled and retreated to the back of the parlor for her Cheez-it’s, I guess. Sammy lectured me on being honest. I felt pinned. I never asked to do reception, plus she didn’t say she’d pay me for it.

Another walk-in. Another breakdown. This woman was relatively shocked when I asked her if she preferred a man or woman for her session. Apparently, she had requested K. Sammy came out, again. The woman took her room. The papery sheet crackling under her weight. I started cleaning up the couples used room.

In the back room I found K and Sammy talking, arguing even. K was asking for her cash that was owed and something about scheduling. I’ll skip most of the details but next thing you know - the new customer fled. The argument escalated! “ok, I pay you and you leave..” Said Sammy. K’s voice arched its back! “We gonna have a problem… you know I’m homeless and I need this job! My mom’s just had face surgery and I need to be paid what you owe me!” - “You can’t do this!” K shrieked, tearing up. I truly felt bad but knew I needed to stay out of it. Sammy was cold about this alright.

“We gonna have a problem!” Yelled K.

Scribbling on a notebook. Whisk, whisk, whisk went some cash - Slapped into K’s hand. “Get out.” Sammy said plain and calm.

“I hope you keel yo-sef!” Yelled K.

This whole time, Sammy’s customer was still on a bed facedown hearing this all play out to the background of super chilled out new age elevator music.

I saw as K tried to shove Sammy aside in the hall between rooms to leave, throwing an elbow. Mistake. K didn’t know that back in mainland China, Sammy was a police officer in her twenties and also a trained wing chun expert. K’s blow missed, Sammy ducked, moved in closer to K striking her in the throat with ‘broken wing’ technique, then easily swept K with minimal effort before landing on K’s back swiftly, swirling up a big hand full of hair in the left hand, Sammy’s right hand made a fist drawn back. She calmly forced screaming K’s head to turn over to see the fist.

“Ok, you ready to leave ?” Said Sammy grinning..

K got up slowing muttering threats. She finally left. I was order to lock the front door and flip the open sign to closed.

Sammy opened her customers door to whisper, “So sorry, I back..” The door closed behind her.

I sat down to process all this. I began to wonder how much longer I should entertain this mini-career. Sure I need the money. Some of what K echoed in my mind. Sammy doesn’t know I’m homeless. The difference between K and myself is narrow on paper. How long would it take before Sammy may exploit my circumstances.

I am an expert in hiding in plain sight. However, if you hover a UV blacklight over my body and clothes, you’ll plainly see the splattered blood of bad decisions and poor choices that’s led to this moment.

[crackheadcastle]

Liquid Moon.

Sleeping in the park last night, a break from the Buick. I watched as the NYPD scoured the bushes and benches so briefly with a flashlight before jumping in the cruiser for the next scouting. I walked in confidently to the little meditation garden thingy. So cute, less trash. I'd rather sleep in a bed of love this evening. I want to let the city night's cool air sigh over my face. The highway grime of the bqe isn't far. I can hear the pounding tires race over those tortured pot holes. Tock-tock. Tock-tock.  Enjoy the rhythm. It's soothing. Even the people talking to themselves walking by. They don't perceive me nestled in the low shrubbery. Although, dogs can hear my thoughts, they can smell my whispering dreams, the flavor of my wanderings.

I no longer check my phone. Who knows what time it is. I’m relieved of social media for now. That familiar Ganges River of mind barf no longer holds me hostage: puppies, mom’s memes, politics, school shootings, cat videos, birthdays, refugees, war. And repeat.

I’m present to the aroma of moist earth after a good hard rainy day.

It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep. Conked out for what felt like an hour before something woke me. Charlie came along with a small boombox radio, smoking a cigarette and drinking an overflowing coffee. “eh man.” He said a few times before I knew what was happening. Charlie brought some tequila for me, how sweet? He knows my brand. I didn’t mind hanging out, I don’t sleep very much anyways. We hung out for a bit before he had to split. Our conversations really aren’t much. Like two people talking to themselves, each tuning in and out like bored spies pirate listening to radio station frequencies. He laughing at my massage chop shop gig. Getting paid to make people horny. Rubbing down strangers. Charlie called me a slut in good jest. He asked me how much for a happy ending? I told him $500 of course. He had to get going..

Blissed, buzzed, knowing that a good hang-over will bring on a poetic dawn, I laid down again meditating on many things.

Trash, do you throw it on the ground - overhanded or underhanded? Does it matter? Human nest of plastics, one minute friends, two minute napkins, three minute cups, four minute wrappings, five minute bags. What do you care? We love our disposable kingdom.

I went to the city today to see a man’s words painted on garbage. During my adventure I participated in synchronized subway walking along the stairwells. Butt inspectors creep mathematical paces. Genetic investigations. Muggy rat smells. The club foot problem money maker - why would he ever actually fulfill on his promise to get shoes at Payless with $20, he’ll surely starve if he repairs those black toes and sickly black snake sock dangling. Hidden children wrapped. Licking bacteria glow.

This brown bag of chatter is squeezing words out of my purple brain.

Teeth Sucking Delirium. Observing. Sweet tree life. Going branch by branch by leaf by root. To indigo.

Follow bardo blue if you desire a life of foliage.

How’s the venom treating you?

Crashing plates descending a staircase. Haunted Pleather. Silent red Cardinals begging outside your windows.

I have a statue of death in my pocket to keep my baby dick the size of burning Alaskan Palm Trees.

Rolling under, tucking myself beneath the ureic air of boxwood bush here. I get ready to pass out agin. In the morning you’ll find my skeleton in the meditation garden. A bouquet of mushrooms and flowers spraying from my skull eye sockets. I have a perfect funeral every night.

[crackheadcastle]

Cultural Code. Braille diamonds.

Being homeless requires more organizational theory than you might expect. You’re more present to fashion and style, looking good is more important when you’re living on the streets. If you don’t look like you have it handled, a sense of being watched occurs and leaves one paranoid.

Ikea or the Container Store may as well have been founded by a homeless person - keeping track of everything you ‘own’ via plastic bags in a shopping cart, knowing what’s in where and for long it’s probably been, etc. One crinkly bag for laundry, one for stuff to throw out, one for clothes that got pissed on last night by accident in the dark. Things get especially complicated in the wild.

People watching takes on a whole new form, it’s like reading a fancy phone book, name by name, image by image, palettes of color stream by in a handsome blur of concerted effort. Thousands of dollars walk by. I tend to notice the rings - those diamonds loaded with significance and hollow desires called monogamy. Boring. I can’t understand that sense of ownership or in air quotes partnership with another human. Diamonds are the logo of polished hypocracy. Why didn’t they try adopting one of the poor kids who had to dig up those rocks with shattered fingernails in the mud under cold rain? What’s love really about? We seem to prefer the temperature of this pool water we call home or reality.

I accept my own disgusting duality. I care deeply and yet, I’m blinded by my own sense of survival. Picture enough trash to fill a street of three family homes out on long island. This is what we’re blindly creating, all of us, one by one. I’d like a polaroid of that image to see before I die. To remind my stupid ass as I buzz through the bardos of timeless light towards a scorching purple hued featureless desert we all inevitably wander across - to the River of Unmindfulness where we take a drink and lose all memory of our previous life. Well, I would like to stuff that polaroid up my ass, all rolled up like a tampon.. then next thing you know I’m getting pulled out of some strangers vagina in a weird smelling room and the doctor cocks his head in surprise. “What’s this? He’ll say. drawing out the polaroid and unraveling it to view. Ha! I’ll be famous, in People magazine, Us Weekly, hell, even on Fox news. I can see the news ticker on Cnn in 2034: Child born with polaroid of trash filled housing stuffed up its rectum - a sign of end times! We should be allowed to take at least one thing with us to the next incarnation. Our reality would become a shifting museum, scattered attachments, confusing connections to our new faces that do not understand the braille wonder we previously had in mind.

The skill of hiding things as a kid comes in handy now. I trained myself to be a thief when I was a boy. I mastered the art of backtracking, stepping backwards through every step I may have taken in order to get money out of my mothers purse. I had stolen a hundred dollars in singles and fives by the time I was ten years old. Then I was slapped backhandedly by the mother, hard. She is left handed you see. Guess what kind of ring was on her second to last finger and left a gash that’s become a noticeable scar for life over my left eye brow? Diamonds are tokens of love alright. Mother insisted that I pursue the career of being an FBI agent. I still remember her saying this in the check-out line at the grocery store when I was little. Did she know that I was hoarding $20 worth of Garbage Pail Kids packs in my windbreaker at that moment? I used to steal baseball cards, too.

Hiding in plain sight is my specialty. I depend on going unnoticed.

I am a Garbage Pail Kid now, ’Jasper Fawkes’: I’d look like a dirty Peter Pan wearing a dead fox as a shawl surrounded by apocalyptic gloom. That’s me alright, on the inside at least. On the outside I am polished as possible.

My new job at the massage shop depends on my front as well. I stop by bodega bathrooms to wash up a little before going to work. I swipe deodorant under my pits at CVS and put the stick back on the shelf. I rub cologne scents from magazine ads onto my face at the corner stores to cover up my homelessness.

I can go on and on. You get the picture.

[crackheadcastle]

Fucks Giving.

I made it back to my pigeon shit covered Buick motel under the BQE.Charlie went home already. My 10 speed has been stashed in the back of one the U-haul trucks that never seem to get rented. I’m surprised that they leave those things unlocked, the rear cargo doors just sit wide open all day.

The fifty dollars Sammy paid me is tucked into my front pants pocket. I'm left with blue balls from massaging two girls and gay kid. Holy fuck am I horny. I think about asses. I replay all the asses I checked out over the course of the day. Black yoga tights, panty lines suggestive and obvious. The possibility of sex plays out from my memory even though I know it's fantasy. Camel toes wiggling toward my eyes and passing. So strange - am I the only one who compulsively checks out the booty on everyone? Even old ladies. For a moment I ponder this grotesque habit. A person's butt is where shit comes from. Where toilet seats randomly view an individuals intimate digestive function.

Appetite is everywhere I guess. But, what's so sexy about staring at a person's stinky crevice? I don't care. The effect makes my cock fill up with blood. There's something primal to it all. Dog's sniff each others asses, too. It’s like the original email exchange. Sometimes they lick for a better read. What's that about? A person's ass is indicative of the individual's diet and genetics. I read in a book about how humans learned to control fire to cook food which lead to a rapid enlargement of our brains in a short period of time. Well, asses got bigger too. So did tits I suppose. I think there's a difference: people who like tits are after ample progeny - the ability to feed many children, straight up quantity; people who like ass are after intelligence in creating new children, quality of mind.

I re-imagine how I gave a face massage to this college girl today. Ever look at a face upside down for 10 or twenty minutes? The mouth at the top, two eyes at the bottom, eyebrows cupping the sockets. The nose disappears. I wanted to kiss those lips as her sweet breath went straight to my nostrils like an Egyptian hieroglyph explaining life after death. So then, let's say a person's ass is another face which is measured for what's possible in reproducing without responsibility in mind. Ass is the world my friends, sweet visual nectar, the original sense of pornography made flesh.

In the present sense, we are all made up of the entire history of our species. Right now, if anybody looks they will see it. All the wars, conflict, celebrations, languages, beliefs, rituals, knowledge; it's all inside of us. We are nothing but ignorant thieves, we were born to steal from the start without a care of certain impacts. Look at the way humans have raped the earth! This is the nature of profit, blindly taking and getting away with something. We're used to feeling dirty, shameful, nasty. I think we actually prefer this way of being.

I pull off my pants. The tingling of my right nut is distracting and I know just what to do.

Sitting in the back seat of an abandoned car in Brooklyn I began to fondle myself, talk to myself and my phantom mistresses. I pretend to lick the little pussy mound under the white towel I observed today. I imagine sliding my hand up the towel toward her black panties while the girls eyes are still closed. My two fingers land softly on the clit and press, nudging gently, suggestively. I imagine the girl's breathing shift, granting me permission to work further, penetrating her to my second middle finger's knuckle. My other hand begins to press firmly over her lower tummy.

I look at my own cock now. It's brilliant, hard, tall, seemingly perfect. Lonely in the pale light, ignoring the putrid scent of cracked pleather seat making noise beneath my bare ass as I squirm in rhythm.

Masturbating in public is a treat. Bringing yourself to orgasm while driving down the highway, hungover, tired, hungry - this is the most satisfying feeling. Cumming and clutching your cock or pussy while looking at an unbeknownst stranger is a feather tickling experience worth trying a few times. You really get how simple and ok it is to want to fuck. You get how limited and lacking in vitality that we are playing a narrow game to getting laid. What's the point of pretending you don't want pleasure?

I keep tugging my cock. Pre-cum begins to make the shaft slippery which increases all sensation. My heart is racing. My butt cheeks begin to contract intensely. Images of todays asses blink by quickly, a slideshow that creates a body reaction, my gut burns. I want to fuck at least 5 of the girls I saw today. I want to make their pussies puff up, I want to lose my face and tongue in their grooves. I get the sensation of being hungry. My teeth feel hollow and cold.

What will it take? Wet clicking can probably be heard from outside the grimy Buick, blending in with the BQE's normal rumble. I'm in a state of blind ecstacy alright. I look at my throbbing, slime sloppy cock and wish for it to be buried deep inside my favorite moment of the day. Probably the girl who walked into Sammy's that just wanted to be relaxed in time for her exam. She who simply lacked a boyfriend to get laid with. That's all we need sometimes - is to be touched lovingly by a stranger.

Across some kind of astral plane focus. I visualize so hard that my eyes shut painfully. My wish to cum inside my phantom is overwhelming. The sensation of approaching a ski jump comes on. A moment of not knowing what may really happen when I land instigates adrenaline, shaky knees, shortness of breath.

My cock feels like the Eiffel Tower about to explode and spill it's light over the city of asses and heart shaped lips.

A quiet rapid panting takes over and I cum hard! My semen leaps out suddenly, powerfully, going 'splitch, then.. splitch'. The rear view mirror catches the first burst with a 'tap'. The rest lazily creams the dusty radio and left-alone switches of the ac/heater knobs. I gasp in pleasure.

I sit back grinning looking at my own personal glitter.

[crackheadcastle]

Get a Job. Flat tire bikes.

I made a friend in the neighborhood. His name is Charlie. He's from Nigeria.

He had this really super big smile that made me wonder if he was gay at first, esp. in the way he looked at me when I met him and returned his 'hello'. Turns out he was out of work, living with his brother in public housing on the edge of Bed Stuy. Charlie's biceps were grapefruit shaped, evidence of having worked laborious jobs most of his life. I liked how dark his skin was, soft, porous, beautiful.

Lately, we started riding bikes together. Smoking cheap weed that we could get at the airbrush t-shirt shop on Fulton. Both of our 10 speeds were just crappy squeeky things we found in abandoned lots around the neighborhood. Mine happened to be a girls bike with gooey deflated tires that went 'ding' when I rolled over raised man hole covers or pot holes.

We rode real slow, without intention or destination. I would become mesmerized by the way Charlie's rear wheel wobbled, the sides of his back tire frayed, threads waving, waiting to let go of the dry rot inner tube.

I kept thinking about how the hell I might make some money. I'd eaten through much of the cash I got from selling my bed back in Boston.  On this particular day Charlie and I rode all the way down to Sunset Park. Every once in a while we would stop and roll a skinny joint straddling our bikes and smoke at an intersection not saying much.

Being a little hungry we were on the lookout for a bodega slinging $2 sandwiches, maybe even a chicken posada at a mexican spot. That's when we passed a tiny massage joint with poorly done hand written prices on colorful construction paper. One of the cards said: 'Masseuse Wanted, Free Training'. Charlie laughed and said, "Happy Ending?". Which made me grin. God knows I was horny. It'd been awhile since I was with a girl. "Hey wait, man. I'm going in.." This mildly shocked Charlie, his humor turned to vague annoyance. "Wha you gon go eeen there for?", "A fuckin' job, dude.." I said. Charlie flipped me off jokingly, his head swung in disapproval. "Wha ever."

Without further discussion I leaned my crappy bike and walked in. "You want massage?" Said a tiny chinese lady behind a table covered by black fabric. Dainty new age music chirped from everywhere, the scent of lavender smelled good. "No, I want a job as a massage therapist." To this she stopped and sized me up, staring me in the eyes intensely. "Let me see you hands." I did. She squeezed them hard and told me to have a seat. "What's you name?" she said. "Jasper". "Ok, my name Sammy". The chinese lady went into a spiel about getting my own customers, what people like, getting tips. I realized that this was in fact a job interview and put on my best effort to convince her with body language of my confidence. Christ, I've never done a professional massage in my life.

Just then a couple walked in smiling. A cute girl with a big butt and her gym athlete boyfriend. "Hi, we'd like a couple's massage.." The chinese woman talked to them for a minute about price and time while I put on my best disposition.

"Alright", Sammy said, looking me square in the face. "You up." I got goose bumps. She's throwing me into the mix on the spot. I glanced out the window. Charlie was rolling another skinny joint, probably for himself. In an act of simultaneous desperation for money and fear of having to possibly commit to a job all the way down in Sunset Park. I said “ok. Let's do this”.

Sammy led the couple into the room and told them to get undressed. She came out and started giving me instructions, to follow her lead. First, we went and washed our hands and forearms. "You take the girl, I take the man." I nodded. Then we walked gently into the dark room where the couple were nearly naked under white towels, face down. I nervously asked the girl, whispering to her ear what she would like, if there were any injuries I should be careful of.

"Um, I have a lot of stress in my lower back." She said. Immediately I began to sweat. Immediately I lathered up my hands with oil, mirroring Sammy. Then I started in. Pawing this beautiful strangers back, fingering over certain tattoos trying not to be creepy. Surely this person would figure out I'm an a hack! Being nervous made my breathing quite shallow. I was nearly dizzy with the warmth of the room. Plus I knew I was dehydrated. Sweat kept dripping onto her lower back as I pulled back her lace g-string and towel to get near her tail bone. I don't think the guy noticed how much attention I paid to his girlfriend's amazing ass and hips with my pushing fingers. Sammy had him in pain, standing on his back and contorting his chiseled frame. The guy kept groaning in delight. My eyes twitched with careful focus.

I was in heaven. I didn't even know if Sammy was gonna pay me for this shit. I anticipated being used by Sammy yet I was happy to help. Rich without money. Charlie was never gonna believe this one.

[crackheadcastle]

Lucky Break. BQE accommodations.

The rain was coming down pretty good last night. Had to sprint from my mini encampment in the park because I knew the chilly breeze would make me sick if I got soaked. I didn't expect the sudden moisture. At night in Brooklyn the sky doesn't tell you much, no stars, static pale haze, no indicators.  

For about an hour I walked or rather paced about beneath the BQE near the Navy Yard. Supposing I wait out the rain, I tried to keep busy but definitely needed some sleep. I scouted for others who also might be lurking. Passing cars and trucks splash by intermittently. It's cool to watch the headlights come from afar. Little details like this have become interesting since I've so much time on my hands now. Like observing the structural repair of masonry, patches of mis-colored bricks revealing a buildings past.

A lot of the cars seemed to be covered in highway grime, some more than others. I thought about curling up under the bed of a truck or maybe even hopping in the bed itself so I could close my eyes. I tried sitting up against the wheel of a cleaner looking bmw but my back got stiff and besides I couldn't ignore how gross the ground was. Scattered glass, pockets of puke, roaming black plastic bags like urban tumble weeds skittering along. I suppose the tried and true thing to do is go find an atm somewhere but I simply prefer to be more discrete about my circumstances.

Just then, it dawned on me: I started to gently tug at the door handles of the parked cars, testing each to see if one might open. Of course all of them were locked but still I kept going. Tug, nothing. Tug, nothing. I must have tried fifty cars in vain while mentally preparing myself for someone to see me and yell.

Towards the end of the underpass I spotted a Buick station wagon covered in pigeon poop and what looked like road snot from the highways gutter above. What are the chances this could be my motel shelter from the rain? I teased myself for a second before.. tug, click, open!

The smell of vintage mildew greeted me instantly as I poked my head inside for a better look. Holy shit. It's empty save for the jumper cables in the front seat and some old cigarette butts in the ashtray. I hopped onto in the backseat. To my delight you couldn't see out of the windows since they were so covered by grey ink abandon.

Smiling, I closed the door behind me knowing that it was safe. The rain saturated clothes came off. I pulled out pajamas even. I started to laugh out loud. Turning, I saw that I could put the backseat down and really stretch out.

I don't remember falling asleep. For awhile I simply laid there. The BQE above kept up its soundtrack of 'chock-chock', and guttural motors, jake-breaks and car horns. The weight of some of the trucks even made the station wagon rock a little. This was all too good to be true. I could put up with this for the night. It was all soothing to be honest. The racket outside was muffled. This was my conch shell for the night. I passed out like a little snail listening to the ocean of urban wonder outside.

[crackheadcastle]

Sleep Deprivation

Anger and Resentment.

4:45 am. Forty Eight degrees outside as I shift again on my private park bench. I’m in Greenpoint Brooklyn, Little Poland they call it. Every hour and a half I wake up with a nose that’s freezing when it’s like this. It really sucks. But, I know summer is coming. The other night I treated myself of a $2.75 motel experience on the mta. I simply rode the A train from Brooklyn to Queens and back again. Nobody seemed to notice and besides it was raining out pretty good. I’m resisting the ‘I look homeless’ thing. Pride. Laziness. A bizarre sense of entitlement leaves me without truly wanting a job.

My body feels abnormally heavy lately. Like walking underwater from one street corner to the next. It’s just fatigue. I wonder what it must be like to train to be a Navy S.E.A.L. or what it must be like to live in North Korea. Shit. This isn’t so bad. Just gotta work on a plan. Yea.

Being deprived of sleep somehow makes it easier to stay awake for longer. I create conversations with people but seldom retain much of what was said. I simply cannot map what I hear to real memory. Like a child skipping rocks on the pond out back, yea, words like skipping rocks, never landing until it’s time to sink.

Anxiety is the new normal now. I suppose it’s time to knock on some doors and get a dishwasher job at a restaurant or something. You’re probably wondering why I haven’t looked for work yet. What I have to say is this: to hell with it all! I’m resentful. Angry with the circumstances which led to this embarrassing time of my life. Frankly, I want to disappear. My family doesn’t need to know if I’m alive or not. They claimed I kept crying wolf too many times, that they were really frustrated with me needing financial help. ‘Why don’t you go back to web sites?’ they’d say. Well, sure. I can waste more of my life with that. Hundreds of hours focused on tedious code details and for what? To watch someone spend ten seconds on a site before they’re distracted to another Facebook notification? Yea, no thanks buddy.

If there’s anything I’ve learned about life up to now it’s this: human society is actually crazy, there’s no up or down, no right or wrong. We’re simply living into a projection that we believe relates to being successful. There’s no difference between the wall street day traders and the tourists and the artists or the taxi drivers, etc. This is all Crack Head Castle. Choose your flavor and enjoy it!

I choose freedom this time. I have no idea what it’s gonna look like. I’m letting go of controlling my life because I’m sick of being controlled. The ‘rules’ most people live by are simply upheld as standards which then get exploited by those who have no respect or compassion for regular people who struggle. The game’s rigged I tell you. The proof is everywhere.

It’s been awhile since I’ve slept well, so I apologize for sounding kooky. I’ve come to a new understanding about reality and the universe which is super simple: thoughts become real depending on how you believe in them.

Laying here on this bench, my hips aching, my ‘pillow arm’ is mostly asleep and still, I’m visualizing my future, cooking it up in the kitchen of my mind. Right now, from nothing who am I as a possibility?

[crackheadcastle]

Highway Shoes.

 Appetite. Shopping for money.

I had a piece of pizza yesterday.

Funny how the smell of nearby cigarette smoke is appealing. Today, I'm sitting on a park bench cross legged and smiling. They came and took my car whose loan payments I could no longer afford. All the messages I've left with family members asking for help haven't been returned. 

I loved the car, it had a turbo. Clocked 110 mph on the highway driving it home last year. Even began Uber driving with it because I couldn't seem to land a tech job in Boston. The riders were always impressed. I regularly hid my embarrassment of driving them around in such a nice car for meager payments. Gawd dammit. The late night drunks. Early a.m. stressed out commuters. Tourists. Whole families packing in, kicking the seats or slamming the doors until the lock sensors broke and the windows stop working. What a racket. I could never get ahead doing Uber. The more I drove the more gas was purchased, coffees, road snacks, serious lower back pain, cruising around and around the same city and towns all day, everyday. I felt like Sonic the Hedgehog spinning by so much traffic. Fixing things like brakes, getting new tires, repairing tail lights regularly just killed my profits. 

There was a numbness, a welcomed ignorance to the imminent failure waiting patiently. You see - last year I also fell behind on rent. I took out a title loan on the car to help things. Ha! Talk about making things worse. I ended up driving 10-11 hours a day to try beating the clock and the growing bills. I had no choice. Once, I drove in a snow storm with bald tires, the riders didn't seem to notice how we drifted around corners. I sorely needed the money. Then something went screwy with the engine and I couldn't afford to fix it. That was that. Almost 4,000 rides in one year. What do I have to show for it now? I couldn't wait for the repo man to come drag the car out of the driveway and relieve me. In the end, I also gave up my rented room at the apartment flat. I've always been bad with money. I’ve burned up all my favors by friends, too.

This bench suits me just fine. People watching. Dogs. Baby strollers. Pigeons. It's weird to walk everywhere now. The world feels different.

Sold my bed and now I'm slowly eating the so-called profits. Gotta make the cash last. I feel a little guilty. It's clear to me that I never liked 'work' all that much. 3rd shift at a label factory, construction, landscaping, all temporary experiences pointing to my truth. I'm glad I made it back to Brooklyn, it's better here. More places to hide in plain sight.

I'm so hungry right now. Little metal strings vibrating in my gut. Pins and needles. Lightheaded if I stand up too fast.

At night, I go around to bars as if I'm looking to meet a friend. What I really do is scout for loose bills that fall from peoples pockets at the bar in the dark. I found $20 a few nights ago.

[crackheadcastle]

Port Authority

Rock Bottom. Breakdown.

It’s around midnight. My mission was to get to Boston and take care of loose ends, namely the apartment that I'm giving up and personal belongings which I intended to sell for food money. Things have hit rock bottom in a way that I haven't experienced since being a teenage vagabond during high school. Bouncing between twisted screaming parents. Sleeping in the woodshed out back during December, shivering. After school I got picked up by hippie Steve with his illegal 18 year girlfriend from Canada that didn't speak english. We drove towards nowhere on backroads for hours in that black van loaded up with their belongings. They too were homeless, evicted from their trailer.

I found a used bus ticket in the garbage and put it in my pocket, wiping away a bit of ketchup smeared near the corner. My body is exhausted, shoulders sore from walking with this heavy backpack, I haven't slept well for months, I'm dehydrated. Ten minutes ago I had a short melt down when in realizing that I couldn't afford a bus back, I was stuck. There was a testy conversation with a friend over the phone when I asked that she buy me ticket. I had just enough cash to pay her back if we do it online. But, no.

Down in the terminal area for the busses, I wait and think. Homeless men begin to trickle in with cardboard mats. Dignity peeking through their efforts to look 'not homeless'. This seemed to be where I belong. My fate.

A police officer with a handful of volunteer looking types come by. The cop asks for tickets to filter people out. The people in orange vests ask if anybody needs medical attention. I pull out my ticket and the cop nods.

12:30 am. Still waiting and thinking. Where do I sleep? I’m starving. I had a piece of pizza yesterday. The I wanted is here. The line of travelers have finished ushering into the bus, it's engine purr creates a pain in my solar plexus that smells like sadness and defeat. I don't like missing a ride, never have.

12:34 am. The bus's airbrakes hiss and there's the familiar rev of the bus driver being ready to go.

12:34 am. I jump up and do a zig-zag sprint with the heavy bag towards the bus pulling out the used ticket waving excitedly. The doors open for me to step in. It's dark. The driver scans my ticket, I don't know what he's looking for. He waves me by, "ok", he says. 

My face tingles. The bus smells sweetly of faded shampoo and leftover food. Towards the back, I sit down next to a body builder whose deltoids twitch bizarrely. My phone is about to die again. Puzzled relief and joy keep up the tingling. Very slowly, the tears running down my cheeks dry as I watch the lights and signs go by forever outside. The hum and bounce of the bus keep me company while I glow with quiet excitement. I am unstoppable. The vision of a galloping jaguar appears as I close my eyes.