You’re Not Listening

All of this is new to me.  No logic at the end, since it seems to come before we have a chance. That’s not true, we all have our chances.  Well maybe not all of us.  Weep over the little ones wherever they may be.  The ones who stagger around in the mountains or the back bedroom, coming to the end of their chain, pulling as one ankle bleeds.  Where are you tonight?  Talk to me through the wire.  Are you listening?

There was a Indian who I knew in Dallas.  Gar was a Cherokee from New York.  His father had moved there to get away from the oil fields.  He worked on the skyscrapers and one day I asked him how was it that the Indians were able to walk to the end of steel beams fifty stories high and stretched out over nothing?   Was it because they had some kind of innate balance that the rest of us didn’t?  He laughed and said, no it had nothing to do with that, it was just that Indians push each other to be brave, to stick their hand directly into the fire and not say a word.  It was the way Indians judged each other.  Why do you think they call us “braves”?  We laughed.  It was a construction crew and we were building houses.  A few weeks later Gar had a heart attack and fell just beside a mud puddle.  When we found him he was’t breathing and lay there puffed up like a red fish in the sun.  The ambulance took him away and the next week the foreman fired me because I had built a bathroom in the wrong part of the house.  He said he hated to do it and that he had once built a house on the wrong lot, but he didn’t like my hair and the way  Gar and I used to sit in our cars at the end of work and smoke pot.  So I left Dallas and headed down to Mexico with two of my friends who threw some old scuba gear in the car and we went to Isla Mujeres and dived to a depth of about five feet.  A couple of girls were hitchhiking and we picked them up.  They finally drove everyone crazy and we left them at a gas station when they were in the bathroom just like Jack Nicholson.  Down in Yucatan we met another Indian who was living on the beach in a palapa hut.  He was a Maya and we got stoned one night in front of a dry frond fire.  We watched some of his people build a temple in the coals.  He got up and said he was going into the hut to get a machete and come back and kill us.   When I told my friends what he said, we panicked and started running down the beach and jumped into our car.  When we got to the little hotel where we were staying we slammed the door shut and cut off the lights.  We thought what the fuck was that?  Suddenly, the Indian was beating on our door and shouting, why the fuck did you guys run away?  I thought we would take some mushrooms.  They’re killer.  We didn’t say a word and eventually he went away.

Can you hear me now?  Are you listening?  I know you’re not listening.  Because this is impossible Germany and unlikely Japan, but I need to write something today and we all know the WordPress god needs to be fed.  I miss you, eternal friend.  Oh well, fuck it, you’re not listening and you don’t understand.


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