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

5-21

I am lying beside PW in a hotel room bed where I  read a book and watch television simultaneously. I look to tell PW she is beautiful. A group of elegantly dressed ladies appear on television dancing. Their dresses are classical and shimmery. An announcer mentions that they are “voguing” as I notice that they all have tails like animals. PW makes a comment to herself about her bra. She says it’s far too tight. She knows this will excite me.

The bicycle has incredible torque in its gears which make the ascent of hills very easy and its speed impressively fast. I am traveling so fast in fact that I am losing consciousness as I travel down a giant hill. There is no air, or I have been mistakenly drugged. As I see the bottom of the hill my vision becomes blocked. I am unsure if I have shut my eyes. I can only see shadows of trees on the inside of my eyelids. The afternoon summer sunlight is orange and warm. I feel my sense of balance wavering as the speed increases until I blackout.

The department store intercom is telling a story as the elderly sex therapist shuffles in a slow circle. The story is about the ways a man shows his love for a woman. It says that when a man walks astray, he can hold his woman’s hand and lead her or he can forget his love and walk away until he returns, thinking of her all the time.

5-23

All my friends and I are in the back of a pick-up truck where we are instructed to take the first part of the test. We do not know how many parts of the test there are. As the truck drives down a street we are supposed to record everything that passes by our view. Every garbage can, every doorway, every light in every window. The town is a sleepy one, and it is in the after-hours. I find considerable anxiety in writing down what I see because I cannot concentrate. My friends find it easy. My jottings are barely coherent to me, let alone the instructor, who was once a terrible science teacher of mine. After just one pass down the street, we are supposed to have a complete description. I look at my piece of paper to find it blank. I know I am going to fail.

5-26

Connecting the two rooms is a hallway where a tremendous brown horse runs back and forth uncontrollably. It is the largest animal I have ever seen and I am trapped in the hallway with it.

5-30

I am considering a sculpture of the Ninth Circle of Dante’s Hell with a jealous husband. We examine the small model of Satan and the underside of the platform in which it is half submerged. We try to figure the logic involved, after Satan consumes someone.

6-3

A group of us are in a house with white walls. KKR directs us to paintings in the back which are representations of cartoons. As we look at the large black and white paintings, we discover that the Mob is killing all the witnesses involved, and that each one of us must go our separate ways, or risk torture and capture.

I begin my life on the run alone and still free. After disembarking on a trail in the woods, I come upon a split level house high in the hills. Within the cellar of the house is an incredible assortment of caves, and hiding places. The cellar was molded out of blue molten rock formations. Unfortunately for me, the owners of the house have cemented up all the openings. Local teen-age kids, full of rebellion and destructive angst, have spray painted the cement with swears. I know the teen-agers are wise and right somehow. I decide to break out and climb out of the cellar window to get outside, but I am unable to fit through the white window frame, I break it off as I go through.

Outside on the patio, there is a vicious light colored watchdog waiting to attack me. It approaches snarling, and before it bites I throw the old window frame into it’s mouth, and it becomes distracted long enough so that I might escape. However, also on the patio, is the owner of the dog, and the sheriff caretaker of the house. He can only yell, “Mr.” in a sly condescending voice, before I am gone from the scene.

Hours pass and I have dozens of other adventures all ending in escape. I finally end up jumping off a cliff to see if I can land in evergreen treetops.

Years later I am standing outside of myself in a bachelor pad where my cohorts and I listen to various jazz albums. The good old jazz albums with the colorful covers, and the scratchy vinyl sounds. We discuss meanings, and interpretations from our past. We look at the covers as we listen to the selections.

My friend tunes in the radio while we are driving with my girlfriend’s Father. We ride in a large black SUV. It is nighttime in the country. There is just electric light from the dashboard. My friend finds a cult station he knows well. It broadcasts a mantra over and over again for hours on end. It’s called a “chanting station”. He does not understand the mantra. He says that every once in a while they slip in some soap commercials. I find this to be sacrilege. There is no reaction from my girlfriend’s Father.

I explain to everyone about how recently I saw people coming out of the emergency animal hospital on my street with a huge cage. I gesture wildly with my arms to show the size of the animal as I tell the story. Inside the cage was a giant cat with stripes. The animal brought me closer instantly as I had never seen anything that fantastic on my street.  The men moving the cat told me it was a Savannah Cat from Africa.  I was immediately humbled by this creature.

When we return to the house, we must act like the party did not happen. We must hide these facts from my girlfriend’s Mother and Father. They seem to like me even though I am a bad person and lie all the time.

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