You are passing through a field of junk with tall dead grass, and you cannot see the vermin underneath it all.

A huge barrel shaped goon with a tiny head hoists a large safe on the arch of his back. The combination has been lost. He puts it down as he tries to organize the derelict lot. You walk past pretending not to notice an old bass violin with no strings leaning against a wall. You are positive there is a rat under the grass at your feet.

You hear another man speaking to the goon while he picks up more junk, “We should have gotten into this business, we’d be rich by now.”

You walk out of the lot.

The express train doors close and the thieves are in the corner of the car. The two drunk men stand in large unkempt suits laughing hysterically. They stumble with the unsteady train as it starts up, and the sound that comes through the broken door is as loud as hell.

The taller one with the mustache violently pulls out a large roll of money. He tries to count it and divide it up. The other small drunker thief in sunglasses waves a dozen thick gold chains in his stubby hand. The lights dim and flash out for a moment as the train hurtles past stations. The thief in the glasses begins laughing again as if he is splitting. The tall thin one loses his grin, as he is mesmerized by the bills.

After a moment of counting, he looks at his friend with alarm. He shoots a paranoid expression over the rest of the train. He becomes serious and begins shouting only it is too loud to hear. It all sounds like nonsense.

You remember a story about a young kid who comes to the big city to be a singer. He sacrifices it all in a number of years and never gets a return. His nights wash into alcoholic angst. His act becomes loud, annoying and disgraceful. He falls into a group of similar people who feed off of fake compliments. They are a party crowd and they keep each other alive until one of them gets in an unmitigated accident, causing the whole group to be offset. The particular young man whose descent we have so wickedly had the honor of tracing finally returns to a trailer home in Florida where he grew up. His only keepsake is a bright red scarf which was worn by one of the ladies of the group.

A young man hands out leaflets about his jewelry business at the foot of an escalator in a busy train station. The fliers have line drawings of the perfect diamonds which he spent days rendering. Everyone thinks collectively of diamonds on their long commute home.

X. F. Pine

Within the freight elevator, the old Mr. Pointe spends a day’s eternity. Through the wire mesh at the bottom of the shaft a maintenance man hovers over a dark wheel. Spinning ratchets and dull greased pulleys. In Mr. Pointe’s cab are the necessary items of faith. There are old Christmas lights tangled and burned beyond repair. A toy mouse with a rusty grin is affixed to a switchbox. The cab’s color is sky blue, lit by a single raw bulb. Outside the cage the subsequent dark shafts appear endless. Mt. Pointe has no teeth. His neck seems to have been broken once. There is a religious calendar with a painting of wise men in a desert. There are certain exact dates circled in red meticulously. A plastic rose is woven through the links of the mesh. A ripped picture of a beautiful young woman by the sea is taped to a small panel. The girl is photogenic but very shy. Long dark hair covers her eyes. A brown newspaper clipping without a headline flips down only secured by a piece of tape at the bottom now. The words are faded and gone. The story was about Mr. Pointe’s friends from long ago who won all that money. Mr. Pointe believes in luck. A buzzer blares from the top of the shaft and Mr. Pointe secures the stretching cab gate and bolts it down. As the ascent begins, Mr. Pointe yells to the floors above. He complains about their lateness. A camera blinks a blue eye from the far corner of the cab. It’s cool lens is docile and thoughtless, as the cab ascends up through the abysmal space.

X. F. Pine

You must always take more than you give. Your manners are always weak. You must stop saving seconds and losing lives. I swim around in an atmosphere that is so heavy it makes me scream and cry. No one is the better in it. Life is no longer easy. It is the fourth heat wave. My head is broken, my thoughts are out of step with reason. My navigation is circular. I starve and get dreadfully nervous. I question my own body. I want to get rid of my body and my head. I want to float away. I want to make peace with all that is broken. I want to be left on a mountain top like a crystal and be devoured by hawks.

I imagine the phone rings. I imagine many things. I sink into the pit. I cover myself away. I saw lighting over the city. I saw the clouds in layers. I’ve forgotten how to be lost in  curiosity. People bring fear. People’s expectations bring horror. The moon rises over the Atlantic. The boardwalk is perpendicular. The slats lead to other places. It takes an immense effort to trace them.  It takes strength I do not have. I remember when I did not question effort or the stream that exits my head as thoughts. I try to see the horizon. I see fortresses from angles. I consult maps. I see waves in the distance. I see rocks and fear. I feel the breeze and it’s like a drug. It caresses my skin like a sound.

I finish books in diners and my hands smell like gasoline. The waitresses are so friendly. They take care of me automatically. They smile at the most subtle things. They make arrangements. They look me in my troubled eyes. They make things I do not want vanish. .I attempt to go to the beach but feel so disoriented I cannot go near the water.  I become paranoid that my phone knows I’ve been drinking and have driven. They would have to subpoena the evidence and geographic locations over time. I would lose.  I make slow five hour movies of plants to confirm they move and are alive.. I need to write my own will and testament. How does anyone acknowledge worth? How does anyone retain closeness? How do people NOT question love and kindness. You have to be abandoned in the wilderness to really understand. You have to be shot out of cannon and have people catch you before you know your true worth.

X. F. Pine