September 7, 2004
Envy
The sun attacks him in the summer--
his heart beats faster as drops of sweat
fall off his forehead onto hot cement,
evaporating quickly, as have the years....He hears the 'Saturday voices,' envies them,
the young guns two houses down, leaning
on their shining cars, opening beers,
laughing and shouting stories of last night's
conquests of the flesh.Shirtless and suntanned--Aphrodite would
approve of their lean, muscular bodies,
unspoiled by decades of abuse, work, worry.
Dissident spirits that fly so freely on Friday--
and on Saturday forgive their own sins.He knows the painful lessons that
await them as he recalls his own life, contrition,
a broken heart that's barely survived. But here
he is. Those battles are won. He leans
on his broom in the shade and realizes
the young guns don't know enough yet
to envy him.
At the Intersection of Adelay and Twenty-third Street
Music sails up and down Adelay Street from an
open-air Latin nightclub; bright horns, crisp drums, a
hi-hat. Multi-colored paper lanterns jerk in the
blossom-sweet breeze; serried dancers spill their
drinks on the chipped, salmon-orange tiles.CJ and Mansfield saunter past the music and into
the Cue, as they have almost every Friday night since
'ninety-one. The pool tables are geometrically aligned,
squared-off like bright, green farmers' fields; sixteen
tables with cheap, plastic impersonations of Tiffany-
lamps floating in the smoke over each one. An old,
neighborhood place of order. Mansfield rolls up his
maroon sleeve and . . . there it is, the black-and-red-
ink, fanged jaguar on his muscular arm that CJ
marvels at every time and says is "wild, man!" as
Mansfield racks the stripes and solids.At table sixteen, back in the corner, a kid with a
midnight-blue bandana over his eyebrows, khaki chinos
and Ray-Bans sits in a squeaking chair, smirking,
slowly spinning his pool stick between his two flat palms.
His cigarette never leaves his mouth. Ashes fall on
his white tank-top. He's half CJ's and Mansfield's
age, but his face is an ancient, bronze face.In the "old days," CJ would have provoked him,
said something to him, like: "What are you laughin'
at, you little smart-ass?" and Mansfield would have
backed him up, but as the kid turns around, CJ
stares at *his* arm - a homemade 2, 3 and an L.
*Twenty-third Street Lobos* CJ knows, swallows and
says nothing. The kid limps over to his leather-
miniskirted girlfriend and kisses her neck. CJ
and Mansfield look away.
The new music on Adelay is louder, faster than
it used to be, it occurs to CJ, its beat unsettling.
Finished Product
(in memory of Tasia Patton)Grunge-clad nomad
at home with the homeless,
she shared the streets
with the strange and sedated;not one of Adrienne's divers,
not armed, not ready,
for her the wreck waited
like a whirlpool waits for
a raft with one survivor.A near-finished product
institutions created,
abandoned, set adrift
on choppy waters for which
there are no maps. Naturally
she would be drawn to the
ancient, beguiling bridge of
wicker that spans
smoke and dreams.The bottomless ocean
smiled, knowing
the bridge would collapse.A bright burst of white
meant there was no time
to surrender! Over and done
with in a monstrous
flash of gunpowder and light.
Tossed off like a rag. No
seamstress could mend
her with that many holes.Thus she sank.
Packaged and advertised
with a name and dates to
announce her last place,
shipped off to the store
where everything's kept
cold, finished product,
laid to waste.
Kurt Cobain's Widow
His poster adorns a large, wet window of a Seattle brownstone.
Tousled, butter-blonde hair, like a little boy's. Smiling, eyes sparkling;
forever content in that singular, painless moment.There's a Courtney Love poster in the same window.
Half the size of her late husband; not as prominent.
Her red lipstick is smeared across her cheek as if wiped with a rag;
her eyelids are leaden, weighted down with too much blue.
She looks . . .
profoundly bored.Huddled under the two posters is a group of young people
dressed in plaid, flannel shirts; black pants, black armbands.
Black all over.
Slowly, they head down the sidewalk,
like a funeral procession in old Sicily,
their hands cupped around dollar-store candles
to protect them from the light, Seattle drizzle.I feel sorry for them - these young people that vested so much in him.
Like us and Lennon.
I'm sorry for their loss and their burdensome, tearful grief
that shows on their faces like a collective veil,
that they must go through life like this:
Dressed in black, alone, in mourning.
Copyright © Robert Louis Bartlett
All rights reserved.Robert Louis Bartlett has been featured online at Fiction Warehouse and Facets, and published in print in Canada's "Storyteller Magazine". He lives and works in Mesa, Arizona.
