In the top bunk to my left, Romeo and Juanita coo love story. Two bunks below me on my right, Richard, a blond harlot, sad, aging against the night because he’s too weak to rage; vain, desperate, lonely, and horribly frightened; so tragic in a world where just simply tragic is a good day, will unsuccessfully seduce me with Ramen Noodles lovingly crafted with bits and pieces of yesterday’s menu by his Man Friday through Friday; David, a serious soul with a pony tail and late stage AIDS. He was busted for growing the pot he needs to tolerate chemotherapy. That’s his story. His stoic facade masks his rage. His is a rage I share just as Saint Francis shared the pain of the stigmata. Or your pain when falling stars make you cry. David may take his fury to the grave sooner than anyone with heart can bare, but if that should occur, I will pick up his torch where he drops it. He will know that his life has meaning. It will be my honor, my privilege, my duty … and the beat goes on and on. And so on goes the beat. Over on the boardwalk, a beautiful young couple head over heals in love pass my bunk over and over and over again. Little Miss Nubian Princess will give up on me before the night is through. Tom from Alabama will invite me over for a chicken sandwich. And the beat will continue to go on. Over in my far right hand corner, perched above the community latrines; cold water showers and faulty-six-bucks-a-minute-you-gotta-call-collect-pay-phones-even-though-most-folks-are-poor-but-justice-is-big-business-freaky-mean-and-foul-and-we-don’t-give-a-fuck-because-we-have-no-soul-much-less-heart stands the impenetrable glass and metal cage where a big, brawny, handsome, black, mean son of a bitch, Deputy Love, lurks. Lost in a computer screen dream, he only lights up to pull the plug to the giant TV screen. This is our punishment for being fags, or inmates, if you prefer, or freer than he could ever be. And the beat goes on and on and on.

12/15/2006

Posted on 12/16/2006
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