There are lights, page 1

They finally came for me, kicking in the door, screaming, "Get down! Get out! Get against the wall!" I did as I was told, of course. Wouldn't you? I had the gun, I had the money, I had the more where that came from, you know? I tried not to laugh. It was 3:15 and I was sore. I was picking through the roses for thorns.

Have you ever seen the night sky just before the dawn? When the inky blue-black night begins to flutter and fade to gray-blue day. The sun close like a prophecy of warmth on my face. Stare at the horizon long enough to let go. Let your pupils dilate... Let the pinprick stars come apart like the holes in your cape... tattered and battered, torn and frayed. That's when you see them: the fountains of Asgard. The burning bush, the pillars of flame. Infrared they come and ultraviolet they stay.

I dreamed that dream again, the night the old blue came in and knelt next to my bed. Why does he come so close? Is he praying? Not to fade but to receed before running away. Blood pumping in my ears. So small, so alone, so afraid. I hung my dick out over the edge and peed. I was so ashamed.

Later on, she came to me and hugged me to her breast with a shh shh shhhh. "It was just a dream." The smell of vaseline on her hands and face. The taste of rosé wine on her lips, Gentle kisses now, recrimination later when dawn arrives.

Girl undressed in an open door frame. Pale white skin and eyes that burned black fire. "Do you see? DO YOU SEE?" Nothing after but a small sense of guilt with no context. It was too soon for context and too late to turn away.

Older boys to zip you up inside a double sleeping bag. Don't say, don't tell, don't pray. Wet swimsuits hanging on chairs after swimming. Towels wrapped around us to dry and display. Old men on the couch, staring, grinning.

There are lights. Melancholy blue-white after images behind the eyes. Touching the thermometer to the glass, fanning the flames.

I run, I jump, I climb, I hide. My fortress safe in the mouth of night. Sitting on the roof, hearing them call out to me. Hearing them fake the fear that I might have run away. Hearing them laugh and shutting the door. "Canasta!" More laughter. Even now I can almost see their teeth barred in victus display. Let the pinprick stars come apart like the holes in my cape. Falling, flying, hiding away.

The sweet and sour taste of Camel cigarettes and stale beer in the bottom of crumpled cans. The smell of vaseline on her face and hands. Early burly Sunday morning. Ache now and pray later. Fake it now and try not to show fear. They eat fear to quiet the hangover flay. Firey proclamations from center stage. Bit players, head down, pretending to sway. To fight, to fall... To feel anything. Anything at all.

Bonfire jamborees and vicious boys surround. Grinning, chanting, gnashing teeth. "Like father, like son! Like father, like son! Like the father, like the son!" Half-human, half bug, smashed underfoot. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Chomp, chomp, chomp. The burning bush, the pillars of flame... Infrared they come and ultraviolet they remain.

Red-shifted uplifted... the monkey man with a permanent stoop. Crawling out of the witching hour and into the day. 50 years of bad dreams to shake me awake.

There are lights. There are signs. There are gentle hands and wet eyes. There are hooks on the wall to test my weight.

There are nights so long I forget what the day looks like. I run, I crawl, I hide, I climb... I sit up at the top and listen to the night. The grinning faces silent, rictus pose, rictus face.

And there is love --even if I fight it. There is warmth in her touch and I crawl inside it. There are places to go and pills to take.

There are bad dreams to bury and new worlds to make.