Girl Soldier of the Night

When I was only eight they came,

a woman in silk thread, reeking

of promise, and a man

of gold cross, one would trust.

“1000 baht for her” they said,

declaring tales of good,

plenty, prosperity,

currency of my people.

Apprised of our peasantry,

they came for me,

bearing bread and smiles

and whispers of plenty.

Empty-bellied Mama,

heeded with no resistance,

desiring life for her daughter,

her only crime.

And so into the night I went,

babydoll brave heart,

curled inside child’s fancy,

ripe for the promised land.

Plunged into battle of wrong,

a foul market of debauchery,

I become warrior,

to unrelenting demons.

Beasts without souls,

daring to rob mine,

but buried deep from thieves,

my feminine honor lives.

Dawn shatters the spell,

a temporary refuge,

for young hearts plenty,

praying for liberation.

We are the blood-red sea of tiny, girl soldiers.

Don't stop believing

Don't stop believing, hold onto the feeling, streetlights people

Giving credit where it is due, this of course is a line from that Journey song - Songwriters: Schon, Cain and Perry. The song came on as I was posting this photo from the recent Milwaukee Street Seens exhibit -- just seemed fitting.


Photo: William Klein. Man under El, New York, 1955. Gelatin silver print

The day begs the night

We turn away to face the cold, enduring chill

As the day begs the night

for mercy love

The sun so bright it leaves no shadows

Only scars

Carved into stone

On the face of earth

The moon is up and over

on one tree hill

I see the sun go down in your eyes

You run like a river, on to the sea

You run like a river runs to the sea

And in the world a heart of darkness

A fire zone

Where poets speak their heart

Then bleed for it

you sang a song, a weapon

In the hands of one whose blood still cries

From the ground

It runs like a river runs to the sea

It runs like a river to the sea

-Bono

A memory

The band played Scarlett Begonias as we sat in the tall grass sipping beers. Ringlets of sun and rainbow reflections danced around your tan body. I remember that your hair was soft, long and brown. We were just 20. I had eyes of a child but my heart felt old. We discussed the Grateful Dead experience and I described it as a sub-culture as I gazed at a sea of thousands dancing on the green grass. The crowd seemed to inhale the music like a drug and drink the bright sunlight like fresh squeezed orange juice. You looked at me and smiled, then placed your lips on mine to blow smoke in my mouth. Your hand rested gently on my cheek, and I knew you cared for me deeply then. Someone in a long flowing skirt and bells on her ankle stopped to tell us we were beautiful together. Her patchouli reminded me of skipping stones with you at the end of a pier when we went camping once. The day was long and hazy and we danced and laughed for hours. Then there was the long kiss goodbye as we leaned on the hood of your chevy. That was the end of our road together and that's how I prefer to remember you.

untitled

The energy inside the circle is palpable and brilliant
like the hot white sparks flying from an
ingleside hearth
under a serious crescent moon.
A slow smoldering burn
strokes the night like gentle fingertips
and soft brown eyes.

From the archives

As I was adding files to my laptop from the old family computer, I found and read this very short story I had written a few years ago. Don't ask me what compelled me to write it or why I did so from this perspective.

Looking back on it now, I find this short story sort of odd and dark with consideration to my usual writing style, but whatev.

Billy

Yes, you caught a glimpse of someone like me. Unfortunately for you, you also caught a whiff of my plight – smelly and forlorn behind a torn paper bag. I’m the one you find fascinating to gawk at, but not worthy of entering your home. I couldn’t possibly enter your life. “Sad,” you say to your friends. “Scary,” you think to yourself. But you walk on, don’t you? Well perhaps our paths will cross again at the next big food holiday, like Thanksgiving for example. You’ll be the one dishing out the stuffing for all the poor lost souls waiting in line with tickets. It is so very kind of you to take the time really. You’re such a busy person. Amongst the tin trays and lime-colored linoleum of a church basement, you’re mildly disgusted but compliant. A plastic smile lurks upon your obedient face, as you silently thank your lucky stars. But then, it’s over. You’re free, and you’re gone for another year, aren’t you? Like the 30-minute television show that wraps up sparkling and tidy, so do you. You go to your clean, charming little house with its glorious possessions of choice. You slide in-between your sweet 600-count sheets feeling rather accomplished. You’ve convinced yourself that you have really done something valiant and noble. But I’m still here and you’re still there. It isn’t finished.

Today, they chased me out of Starbucks and I saw plenty of you there. Scores of you sat behind your plastic Starbucks travel cups, innocently entertained. You see, I thought it was OK this time. That cute little brunette with messy pigtails was standing behind the counter and smiled at me. I’ve been here before and she’s always been so friendly. She’s let me slide a couple of times, especially on those blustery days when I can’t feel my face. Her eyes are like deep pools of warm cocoa and they smile when she does. Then Jake, her manager, spotted me behind a copy of the Herald. He yelled over the counter at me, “Billy, get the hell out of here!” And it was all over. What can I say about the tone of a white, big shot male on a power trip telling me to get out? Well, I can tell you that it resembles the crunching timbre of your shoe squashing a big fat roach.

I know what you’re thinking; I used to think the same thing when I was important. Hard to believe, but I was a district manager for a multi-billion dollar company. Back then, I joined in on the sneers and felt compelled to say, “Hey man! Get a frickin’ job.” Somewhere along the way, I wasn’t uttering it anymore but hearing it directed at me. I stopped counting how many times I heard it. Getting a job certainly seems like the right thing to do, hey? It looks good on paper anyway. It’s simple but brilliant, don’t ya think? It is, until you consider this; I’m not a frickin’ blank canvas. I’m not a clean slate, and the world’s a very scary place without your family.

In truth, I wasn’t always like this. When you see my putty-colored face, try to picture a bright star within. It dazzled for a while, with a J.D. and M.A. breathing endless opportunities from within me. By the age of thirty, I was pulling down six figures and living in a village designed for the privileged. My wife, Gina, reeked of money and beauty. She was ethereal, and I would have killed to keep her pleased. My commercial success had made me feel invincible. It was only a matter of time before I would be made senior vice president. But the opportunities turned out to be pricey and dicey. What does a man of flesh and bone do when the deadlines multiply as budgets and heads are cut, and the hours to perform feats of brilliance dwindle? I found that there just wasn’t enough resources, caffeine or meds. The pressure - I can’t begin to tell you how powerful the force was. My wife, well she needed to obtain the very best. She always discovered what she wanted, insisting the very finest was essential. I quietly accepted. How could I not? She was the essence of the American dream, and I was responsible for her pleasure. There was exquisite furniture, fine jewelry, tailored clothing, getaway trips to Aruba and the south of France, not to mention our staff consisting of a maid and live-in chef. We had everything we desired. My internal pain was the mere price to pay to stay on top. After all, nothing’s for free. As time flew by, I began to feel myself slip from the first wrung on the ladder to third, or even lower.

Then my prayers were answered. Just a little white harmless pill, and fortunately I could perform as I began to climb to the top again. The nights and days ran together but I was performing small miracles and keeping the bald guy in the corner office very pleased. The only problem was I was beginning to lose sight of myself. I didn’t quite recognize the person I was anymore. When an $18 million deal in my territory was lost, it was only a matter of a few short weeks that I heard the rumors bubble. They were bringing in someone from the New York office to assume my territory. It was starting to happen and I panicked. To stay in the match, I diverted company stock for a riskier option with more potential. A friend of mine had doubled his profit in less than a year. I wasn’t so lucky. I ended up playing a nasty round of roulette with the stock market and lost miserably.

I recall how Gina had insisted on a Mediterranean cruise for Christmas that year. I successfully backed out of the trip and sent her along to join our friends for the cruise. I spent the holidays alone with a bottle of scotch and the barrel of my wife’s .38. After this foggy and disjointed contemplation, I arrived at utter dismay. I was too much of a chicken to follow through. I had to formulate a new plan. I had the means to find another way for myself. I was a Northwestern graduate, having graduated summa cum laude for Christ’s sake.

But the pressure of time rocketed like a bullet to my psyche. Employment opportunities grew thin, potential new appointments to positions fell through and the flow of pills was my only relief. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the middle of Michigan Avenue in confusion. I didn’t even know how I got there. People were yelling at me, but I couldn’t move. I just had to sit down, and so I did. I was so very tired.

Frank, the company vice president and one of my closest allies insisted on my indefinite rest. Of course, Gina was unapprised of my leave. She couldn’t know, and I swore Frank to secrecy. She’d be gone faster than you can say loser. How could I tell her that our castle would be up for sale?

I didn’t have to. One cold November night after having spent most of the evening networking at a business cocktail party, I came home to a very dark house. Women who love material things can sniff out trouble like a vampire bat sniffs blood. She left me for Samuel, an old flame who became rich after patenting some software code he wrote. Lucky for him, it is now widely used.

How I got here, I couldn’t tell you. Eventually it became one long nightmare, a long stream of screaming phone calls and people in white. They simply wouldn’t listen to me. Now I don’t tell you all this to make you feel sorry for me. I’m sure you don’t. Just consider this perspective the next the time you see someone like me. I can hear what you say. I can see the expression on your face. Hey I’m poor, not stupid. And you’re no better than me. The stark reality is, you could be just a couple of paychecks away from joining me. Hey, do you got a buck you could spare?