Parallel Lives
Every city has one, a block God
forgot, some unofficial war zone,
demilitarized, but, alive and active
with all the usual suspects cops roust
on periodic missions to clean up after
some particularly rowdy disturbance,
something so embarrassing, around
election day, even the mayor is moved
to act. After the votes have been counted,
results confirmed, the war goes on as before.
911 calls come in and cars are dispatched,
later rather than sooner, except, in cases
of extreme cruelty, events that make
front page news or, on occasion, CNN;
‘Fraternity hazing involved terrorist
techniques, pledges for unchartered
frat subjected to punishments, not unlike
water boarding, until they were forced
to beg for mercy.’
The cries from basement/ dungeon so loud,
so horrific, even cowed neighbors
could no longer endure the noise, could
only imagine what must be happening inside.
University officials assert they had
‘suspicions banned fraternity was still
accepting new members,’ as they had been,
banding and disbanding time and time
again, for fifty years, only the names
and faces changed.
Over time, the block is modified,
buildings burned out, abandoned,
strafed in territorial feuds, boarded up
or razed, salt sprinkled on the mounds left
behind, for sale signs riddled with bullet
holes, gang graffiti ornamented, relics
no one cares to recall or revisit.
All the former denizens, drug dealers,
and their whores moved on, occupying
new digs that soon resemble the old:
from Odell to Kelton, from Elberon to
Quail to Washington; forsaken places,
reclamation projects so far past due
only those with no future go there.
The 13th Step
“I was out for a typical quiet
Sunday in the bar: a couple of
cold ones, a few giggles with a
couple of the boys and a game on
the tube. That was until she walked
in. Not your typical Sunday regular
beginning with the nose ring
and ending with the spiky hair.
We’re just shooting casual breeze
when she says:’ It’s been awhile,
Let’s have shots and beers to celebrate.’
Drops this pile of bills on the bar
all wadded up like she’s been keeping
them in her spare combat boots.
‘What the hell?’ is always my byword
Next thing you know, we’re doing
these amazing to the brim shots
of chilled Jack Daniels at 3 on a Sunday
afternoon. A couple of those later
and we’re ready to blow for a more happening
scene. We’re in The Lark, I think, and
she’s trying to grab the mike from the Blues
guitarist, remember the guy who did
the MTV spot at Pauly’s? He’s cool but it’s
definitely not his scene to yield
the stage to a spiky head bimbo with
a nose ring who wants to sing Kansas City
way off key. He had the bouncers
on his side so even though I know
I’ll never do the Lark thing again, I decide
to split with or without her. Now she’s
really getting hysterical. Something about
her medicine wearing off. All of a sudden,
these details she’s been laying out all
afternoon are starting to come together.
Probation had been mentioned off-hand,
now became felonious assault with a vehicle
while under the influence and this Rehab
thing in the distant past, was about an hour
before she sat down at the bar with the wad.
Now, it’s All MY Fault her life is turning
to shit. I guess that’s what I get
trying to get lucky instead of going
to church. She even said, as a kind of
parting shot, that I was the next step
they warned her about when the 12 Steps
failed. Oh, well, compared to what could
have happened, it’s not really that big
of a deal to delist your phone number,
change your name and move, is it?”
Old Man
at the bus stop,
cadging cigarettes,
right side useless,
supported by a cane,
stroke afflicted,
mostly bald head
hidden beneath
old Yankees cap,
nearly transparent skin
He looks oddly familiar,
more familiar than he should,
until I remember why,
remember how he used to brag
say how I’d made him
his first legal drink
when he was five years
younger than I was
before he became half dead
and twice my age
©2024 Alan Catlin All rights reserved.
Alan Catlin has been publishing since the 70’s which makes him older than dirt as far as online publishing goes. He has adapted and has published in dozens if not hundreds of online publications and even got nominated for a Best of the Net Award. That and dozens of Pushcart nominations, Stoker Award nominations, Rhysling Nominations and etc, and two bucks will get you on the local express bus.
