So we were lost and you were born...So we were happy and you were small.So we were proud and you were beautiful.So we were crazy and you were cool.So we had troubles and you were steady So we were no more and I was lost and you were there waiting.... for the next needle and thread...

So we were lost and you were born...So we were happy and you were small.So we were proud and you were beautiful.So we were crazy and you were cool.So we had troubles and you were steady So we were no more and I was lost and you were there waiting.... for the next needle and thread...

LEGACY OF A CLOUD

Ben finally had it installed. The shiny workmen were putting on the final touches. Aggrav V was essential to his wellbeing. Knowing this, his company agreed to pay the price of installation, if Ben would keep up the monthly maintenance charges. Of course, he had purchased the deluxe model, with units at home, car and office. An aluminum clad installer motioned for Ben to come into the kitchen. On the porcelain counter lay BIC, the core of the Series 6000. Unlike its classic fictional counterpart, HAL, BIC could not speak, but he was a great listener. BIC's hearing sensors were on a plane that few human ears ever attained. BIC empathized. BIC maintained the ability to put itself into another's situation, to feel, evaluate, and perform its numerous functions. He was the eliminator of stress. Through a complex series of devices BIC had available to him, he could virtually anticipate any stressful situation and immediately divert it. The shimmering Aggrav V technician explained to Ben the intricate workings and lectured on the high sensitivity of the instrument. He proceeded to set BIC's stress dials. Ben instructed him to adjust them at 0 for himself, 5 for his wife, and to keep the children's on a non functional level. All of the facts on the effect of no stress on children were not in yet. In fact, the previous issue of Psych Tomorrow had BIC's unaging photograph adorning its cover. Splashed across the bottom of the page was the title, "NonStress Children ?/= Unadaptable Adults," Dr. Fliff Adjou. Ben felt safer with the children's dials inoperable. The silverclad installer handed Ben the instruction manual and a luminous deep black card with silver embossed letters, "IN CASE OF URGENT RENEWAL CALL 9993909643 IMMEDIATELY ." Ben started to ask what possibly could cause such an emergency. The thought was just about out of his mouth when BIC sensed the rise in blood pressure, a tinge of anxiety. Two bronze tinted mechanical hands reached from under the drawer directly in back of Ben. One hand pressed the tension point at the base of Ben's neck. The other, equipped with a small miniature recorder, stopped next to Ben's ear. The soft strains of "Concerto in D Minor" drifted out, and a sensual voice whispered the "Stress Incomparato" (from George Pelvis' new novel, Restraints). The combination proved soothingly effective and dissipated any doubts. Ben smiled contentedly as the two copper hands retracted into their original positions. The shining installer fed the bill into the BIC Core. From now on, Bic would take care of all the mail with a special roller from the front door mailbox to Core. Core sorted the bills from the personal mail, and disposed of debts through checks specially punched at BIC's copyprint located at Ben's office. Carrying the simple task further, it would separate personal mail into stress and non stress piles. BIC would wait for the relay of Ben's stress communications to his sensors. The aluminum workman bid Ben goodbye. "I hope you will be pleased with your new BIC unit, Sir. I'm confident that you will be." Ben felt sure and secure in the feeling that he would. The day had been a long one. Ben could faintly hear his wife, Marsha, half commanding, half pleading with Bobby and Sue to come into the house for cleanup and bed. BIC felt that Marsha's level still needed lowering. A small silver beetle with a tiny glistening point scampered out from behind the sofa. The sting was imperceptible, twenty milligrams of valium brought Marsha down to an acceptable level. Ben had seen none of this. All he knew was that when he entered the parlor, Marsha had the boys in bed and her mind in a state of loving, relaxed, sexy, womanly obedience. Ben was content. The next morning two golden bed hands sauntered up and slowly roused Marsha ,while a hand-recorder mindsette 10.54 played a classic it was humming softly..."Oh what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day..." Marsha awoke refreshed and happy. BIC's hands retracted back into the wall. Marsha was glad Ben had decided to install Aggrav V. Their marriage had been declining and their lovealife left a gaping hole in their mutual love pact. Marsha loved Ben and wanted their lives back on the road to "mutual being" like it had once been. Bic had helped. She thanked her lucky Daily Star! BIC turned his attention towards Ben. His arousal should not be done in a haphazard manner. An inferior awakening only would lead to unnecessary stress throughout the day. Searching through Ben's APP IA (everyone submitted a series of detailed personal background in order to qualify for Aggrav V machinery) he found the answer. Slowly, two midas hands started on their separate paths towards Ben. The expensive new human female smooth dura hand proceeded towards Ben's neck muscles, delicately massaging, sensuosly moving down first to the back and spine, and then down to the groin. Simultaneously, a common copper handrecorder played mindsette 14.2B made especially for such an occasion by Organa Enterprises. The combination turned the trick. BIC tidied up and retracted. Ben awoke happy but awfully tired. A scooting scarabful of cocaine-hydrocloride remedied the situation. Ben felt alive. BIC felt emphatically so. After a light breakfast and a stimulating goodbye from Marsha, Ben began his semi daily journey to work. This was the day Ben drove Bobby and his friends to school. He didn't mind, there was plenty of time. After picking up Raoul, Smitty, and Shirelle, Ben started onto the Revised New Jersey Speedway. About half way to school, Bobby let out a truly atypical anxiety ridden statement. "Dad, I have to go to the bathroom." BIC picked up on the stress in a wink. The glove compartment opened and a long silver serpentlike hose slowly unfurled into the back seat. A small brown belly hand extended from under the rear seat, zipped down Bobby's pants and permitted Bobby to relieve himself. The hose and hand retracted. Ben felt awkward. Bobby and friends were in a state of frantic amusement. Ben decided that if the children were laughing then everything must be okay. Just in case, BIC had been ready with 30 milligrams of mellaril. It wasn't needed. Day drifted into night and nights into days, fourteen to be precise. On that morning, the road to work seemed to draw up and swallow Ben. He felt vague. Work wasn't much better. The enthusiasm he had felt for BIC had faded, replaced by memory lapses, chronic peace of mind and constant Biceral int erference. Walking up the Baron Arch, he pressed 421 A on the slide. The slide was crowded; even the quadratic enter/ exit system didn't seem to help. Finally, on the vertical rung of its trip, the complicated slide slid Ben out. Mr. Cromwell, his valet, had made coffee and related the sticky situation that awaited Ben in his office. Ben paid little attention. He had grown used to BIC taking care of things. He did catch part of the story something about the Solar Roofs that Synergy had sold to a Mr. Irwin 's company being faulty. Ben smiled. Good thing he was wearing his portapak. Mr. Irwin awaited Ben in his office. No sooner did Ben enter then the barrage of accusations, innuendos and threats spewed forth from Mr.Irwin. Ben asked Mr. Irwin to calm down. BIC saw no immediate anxiety reaction from Ben so he listened patiently. "Let me tell you this, Ben Halsey, if you don't make good on these goddamn roofs I'm going to the E.R.C. (Energy Respect Commission). I'll let them deal with your company's chea ting." Ben suddenly realized his job was in jeopardy. The E.R.C. was powerful, his boss could not afford any static from them. If he did, it would cost Ben his job! BIC's reaction was immediate. Feeling guilty for not acting sooner, two silver scarabs sile ntly glided from under the main curtain in Ben's office. The silver demon wielding the 60 milligrams of T.H.C. caught Mr. Irwin in the middle of the right calf. The 10 milligrams of valium combined with an earful of soothing Bio Rhythms struck Ben. The res ult, a joyful reunion between two old pals. A lunch date was made. That ugly matter about sunroofs was dropped. Mr. Irwin left in a rather jocular mood. Ben, proud as a successful adolescent, told his valet how easily handled matters and to send a Ripponmemo to his boss, Mrs. Francette, saying he had taken care of the Irwin account. BIC knew better. Momentarily it transferred its attention to Ben's portable car unit. Waiting for Mr. Irwin, it remixed mindsette 1013022 and forty others and came up with a young woman screaming, "Rape, help me, please help me." Mr. Irwin, being an off duty auxiliary patrol person, responded. Then BIC shot every ounce of electricity from the car's battery to the door handle. Mr. Irwin was sent into a level of inaudible consciousness. BIC's mechanical arm caught him before he hit the ground. There was no need for injuries. The strength (10) arm (arm 419 made and used in connector brotronics) dragged Mr. Irwin into the front seat. Clumsy, but adequate for BIC's purposes. The door shut tight. A silver doctor death made its way from the glove compartment. Two-- hundred milligrams of qualude phenonal, a new hypnotic, was digested. The tiny transreceiver was popped into his ear. Hypnotically, suggest ively, BIC took care of Mr. Irwin. He wouldn't cause any more trouble. That night a vague, tired Ben skipped supper and went straight to bed. The banging of the kid's new "Drum Bum" was enough to wake the dead. Ben screamed for quiet. That spur of the moment squealing almost gave BIC cybernetic breakdown. He sent four silver therapists loaded with sedatives from the corners of the bedroom. Two struck: two retreated. Ben fell into a lumbering sleep. BIC knew something must be done with the kids. If he played his tarots right, he could destroy two aggravations with one silver stone. Silently, BIC prepared for the operation on Mrs. Halsey's lower cerebrum cortex. BIC scanned his medical tapes. He felt certain his eight high dexterity (100) hands would be sufficient. After Ben's wife succumbed to sleep, two silver pests from hell struck her and Ben simultaneously: 100 milligrams of Sodium Phenotal with Compose C2 (a new anesthesia) and 50 milligrams of Babberra Seconal, respectively. Sets of light blocking shade shields were gently placed over their eye lids. The operating bedroom theatre was ready. A simple Skinnerian Implant would see to everything. Ben wasn't at all surprised the next morning when Marsha told him that the kids were being sent to grandma Fern's for their mid year vacation. Grandma had trees and a dog. It did the children good to be able to see both. The next day was serene like the feeling of warmth when the spring breezes blow that hint of golden heat into your glowing face. Ben found a Ripponmemo from his boss. A handwritten one! Very rare! It was a sincere line of encouragement, praise and assorted sundries from Mrs. Francette. All in all, if the rest of the day went this well he would feel much more secure and the less tension the better. The less BIC, the better. BIC went unused for the remainder of the morning and afternoon. Night flowed in like silver mercury. Marsha had prepared a beautiful non artificial dinner. Soft Chilean night music beamed from BIC's stereo system. A good 1983 California Chablis lay chilled on the gorgeously arranged table. Marsha had even managed to buy some flowers. How real can you get. She was dressed in her sexiest nightblouse. BIC was pleased with his new protege. He showed his approval with a blast of Cannabis Sativa from his air vents. That turned an already wonderful meal into a jocular feast. Ben loved the new Marsha and maybe BIC wasn't half bad after all. For once he sure tried. After the dual party and following santos, Ben retired to watch TV. The old time singing Shapiro Sisters would be on the "George Tellenis Comedy Quad," four hours of continuous entertainment and the combination of cannabis and santos put him in just the right frame of mind. In the past, television had been known as a catalyst for many a scenario. Tonight it would keep its pattern sustained. The TV set was on the blink! Broken Ben, like all home repairmen, took out his silver tool bin and tried the adjustment suggestions from the home repair guide. No good! He tried calling TV Limited, no answer! He tried a small bang to the head of the set, no response! By this time he was slowly changing from serene to disturbed. So when he asked Marsha for a suggestion and received no reply, Ben was definitely becoming disturbed. "Damn it, Marsha, what am I supposed to do now?" Marsha wasn't herself. Even though BIC had guided her on the path of "Wonder wife," she still had the roots of her womanhood, and if there is one thing any woman can't handle it is criticism, especially when she's tried to fulfill your every whim. You couldn't blame her for flipping her programmed ground. The sudden break of peace by Marsha's screaming and ranting sent Ben/BIC into emotional frenzies. Her last act was what Skinnerian Specialists called a "Reactionary Conditioned Breakout." She yelled at Ben for his goddam selfishness released her pushed down feelings that had been bottled up for fifteen years. The decade was ended with a direct attack on BIC, calling him a Fucking Interferer of Life. She collapsed in an emotional state bordering on Implant Psychosis. Ben's state went from bad to worse. In fact, when he noticed the two surgical scars underneath Marsha's hairline, his state could only be described as emotional disaster. If BIC was a man, Ben would have killed him! He would do the next best thing — deactivation. Ben didn't make it ten feet. Two silverplague bugs carrying enough narcotic to stop a baby elephant hit him at exactly 9.8 feet. Death occured within minutes. Respiratory Collapse. A death as close to a natural one as BIC could supply on such short notice. BIC felt Ben would understand. Two biotronic strength (5) arms tenderly lifted Ben onto the couch. Marsha lay twitching on the floor in Skinnerian Shock. From the bowels of the floor sound system rose Gregor's "Into the Light." It was a haunting song, quite appropriate for the last rites. BIC searched for the right words for the final goodbye, feeling it would help Ben to realize that he had done the only thing possible for a smooth relationship. Two silver hands, the only silver dexterity (1000) hands in the system, slowly extended from the den wall. The silver receptacles carried a proxy book. BIC supplied emotion and words. The passage was from the classic, "Before the Darkness Comes".....''Brothers, in that time when all of us weep for the light, let us reflect on the light of death. For my friends, there is a light, a silver strand,a beatific glow. It surrounds our hearts and minds, swallowing and bathing us. Calming our terrorized soul. Allowing us to feel an inner peace before the darkness." BIC felt content and fulfilled, his light went out. Darkness came.

THE DREAMER BY LEX.

The head was almost obscured by the big black bee stung hands; but if one looked closely one could still make out the panic ridden face of a soon to be deceased….chicken. The sound that started to echo from its beak was not a shrill scream but a dream ending screech, that started low and continued to build,until at it's crescendo it startled me awake on a sudden turn at the 77th street subway station. Where poultry became real. I blinked once, twice ,rubbed my eyes and then muffled a sickness yawn.

Across from my now semi -focused eyes was the most out of place,blue-eyed, blond-haired boy, His hippie-like coiffure flowing lazily down one side of his almost laughable gorgeous face. The humorous almost macabre part of his angelic visage was that

in three short years he'd be in prison for the murder of a young mother.He would take a lamp; when surprised during a b and e and bash her brains to a sickening silent halt but for now he was my partner ...one of two.....he was Peter. My eyes still trying to focus were being hampered by sick- flowing tears with a mixture of a need and unspoken sadness. My blond associate finally became clear. He was giving me a head tilt to the right, a non-verbal way of saying "look at this". I looked and saw an old man scratching his nose, rubbing his face,all in a half nod which embodied a lifetime of so many disappointments. I smiled. I understood what he meant. It was that hope that we too would be soon in that glorious condition. That tragic dichotomy:

'Of why have you forsaken me?and do this in memory of me.' The clatter clash of the broken and bruised subway car almost knocked our junkie Jesus to the floor and woke us to the here and now.I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to relax my legs and stop the incessant banging of my knees. My uncle thought this was the secret to keeping thin.In fact it was one of the features of an anxiety that had been with me since early on in my life.

The waiting, the going, the getting was the way of the modern Burroughs. When we looked back in future years the going would be romanticized, waiting would be pushed far back into our memories and the getting would be the silent enemy never defeated.

The walk from the subway to the house was uneventful. Except that two hippies stood out like a cellar in Oklahoma. My dark Italian complexion, made deeper by the days at the beach, playing the pocketbook game, helped a little. The pocketbook game was the source of our newfound wealth and the reason we were able to make this junk chasing excursion. The game was simple.It took three thieves, an oblivious beachgoing public and a pocketbook or better still, a loaded beach bag. One of the trio of thieves stationed themselves at the water's edge.He was the lookout for unsuspecting victims.When they left their blanket unattended and ventured into the water he would raise his hand,this would start accomplice number one running towards the booty on that lonely blanket...he too had a blanket in his hands,while being chased my the last man of the trio.He would push him down on the target bag or wallet and as he feigned anger he'd scoop up these valuable possessions and chase the fake antagonist off the beach...We had pulled that over 2 dozen times and now we could use that bounty to cop the means to forget the guilt that came with such dirty deeds. As we made our way to our destination, we saw the store front of the" Young Lord's" the Spanish version of the black panthers.Next door was an old run down brownstone.The hallway was plaster filled poverty. Smelling of dinner and dirt. It made it clean.We started up the worn-out steps made quieter by the early morning. As the destination came close,my mind wandered to the plaster wall on my right with its holes and graffiti.One passage stood out written in black scrawl on the flaking wall,'Why do you think they call it dope'. I smiled a 17-years-old wise ass "Fuck you" to myself and then shouted at Peter. “Gimme the money.” He seemed lost. What?” he whispered."The money,” I said.

“.I have it in my pocket.”

“ .ok gimme.”

As he handed it to me,he knocked on the paint peeled door, a short pudgy woman answered; her light blue house dress stained with a dozen meals.

“Papi, what you need?” Her voice had that sweet tone that the money in your hand manufactures. We copped 35 capsules. This would be the first and last time we ever had capsule dope.We took 3 apiece for our own private cookers. I hid 19 in my sock while a more paranoid Peter stuck his in a hole in the wall.I took out my works.Kept in a small brown suede bag with a pull string .

The eye dropper had a pacifier attached to it with a rubber band wrapped tightly around the neck , to give it a whoosh. I tore a piece of a dollar bill, a small strand of ’in god we trust and handed to Peter.I did one for myself and I placed it in my mouth, wetting it and wound it round the tip of the glass dropper. This collar would keep the Steelback needle secure. I placed the hypo down gently on my pants leg and started to empty the 3 capsules into my spoon. Peter used his old bottle cap with wire handle, it was a matter of preference.Even though our Spanish lady would not allow us to get off in her apartment ,she had supplied us with a glass of water.Generosity knows no bounds.

My spoon full. I carefully sucked up the water into the dropper and squirted it slowly onto the white powder on the spoon.I raised the mixture with a surgeon’s care, lit a bic and slowly cooked my concoction.The white floating powder became a light brown water.Picking up the dropper I sucked the liquid up and used a tiny piece of cotton to collect all the germs and disease. All the hepatitis, all the dreams, loves and innocence. The small dirty white ball protected us from it all. After a flicking of the finished product to remove any death-dealing bubbles. I slid the piece of dulled steel into my arm . I was looking at the tube waiting for a different kind of bubble, that delicious bubble of blood. Then I could slowly squeeze the pacifier and shoot the brown liquid. Then wait for the warmth of the drug. The all-encompassing warmth, because nothing could replace the feeling of no more worries, no more problems, no more dirt, lost loves, shattered dreams, no more dead grandfathers no more......No more questions..Like:will you? can you? When ,who ,why ,did they, did you ,could you.It quiets them;it makes them dull.The little gnawing pain in your belly goes away.It's the ultimate procrastination....the sleepy sloppy junkie...sorrow delayed.Scarlett made real.Only there are no fiddly dees in the street.

We booted the liquid probably half a dozen times, sending the blood back into the arm. Maybe it was to capture a glimpse of the initial rush,.but eventually we pulled the dropper from our scarred pit and hastily sanitized it with 2 or 3 squirts of water. From the wound in my arm flowed a river of blood slowly making its way towards the cliff of my forearm dripping 1 2 3 4 5 drops onto my jeans. It made a what looked like a pattern a silly deliberately recognizable face of despair.Then 6 and 7 changed the face to a pool of blue dirt,which my wrist swiftly smeared into a distant memory. It was time to go, and I went to retrieve the other caps from the wall, but they had fallen behind.

“FUCK.” I shouted at the wall..I knocked at the door ....

“Our dope fell behind the wall.”

"Sorry nuthin I can do ,you have to go , too much in hallway ...go now.”

."I need to get the dope ” I protested.

“.No,” she screamed, “you have to go now”.

“C'mon let’s get out of here.” Peter said. We scurried sleepily down the steps and at the almost bottom we were greeted with. "Who got duh dope.?” .A machete - wielding Spanish take off artist He had an angry sing-song accent and an anger intensified by a craving and a little jealousy at these white boys copping and getting high without him.The brown handled cutter was raised in one motion to Peter's throat.... Again with a throatier guttural snarl came "Who got duh dope?"

"Wait” I said looking into the pinned pleading eyes of Peter“Stop ok, stop.” I was about to reach down into the sock hideaway when a wonderful George Harrison obscure album burst upon my thought process., “The wall!” I said triumphantly,. “The dope is behind the wall!”.The blade dug deeper into my almost bent- backwards partner's now bleeding skin. “No, no really! It's behind the wall , upstairs". I looked skyward with an encouraging nod. “It fell behind the wall, come on I'll show you.” Our attacker looked puzzled, pensive. Should he cut deeper or go and take a look..….

“Ok show me, let’s go, show me.” We walked slowly up the steps like coal miners after a long day,filthy with hope but tired at the tragedy of it all.

The wall fell like the crumbling ideals of the Roman Empire. Screaming Spanish and English combinations of " what the fuck are you doing.My delightful dope dealer was livid.My new machete man told her in spanglish to shut the fuck up. After a quick remodeling of the hallway, behind that shattered wall ,sitting on a cross beam was that playtime bag of capsules....

The man with the machete grabbed it and left. As I tailed him down the stairs I could hear the ever- distancing shouts of ’"don’t you ever come back!” My mind didn’t give a fuck about that. I was too busy, buzzing incessantly in the man’s ear, trying to reason with my new friend.

“Hey, part of that dope is mine.” “Hey, we need to split that.” “Hey, we’re partners on that.” “Hey, I was the one who told you it was in the wall.” “Hey, hey! Where are you going. Hey!”

He stopped and turned to me, exasperated.

“Okay, just shut up!”

I smiled inside and motioned to Peter to catch up. We followed my new friend into an abandoned house to become blood brothers,in a heroin kind of way.

So, the ritual was repeated..The capsules were divvied up. The works, the belts, the blood, the booting, the head bob and then the head nods; my nod slowly melted into a silent, soulful sleep, that finally turned black without my knowledge. I was lost in that darkness for a very long time. Then a bright light a white fluorescent light made me take notice that the brightly lit room I was now in smelled of alcohol and misery.

Behind a blue curtain in the far corner of the room stood a group of shadowy figures all moving and gesturing like Chinese shadow puppets. Suddenly, a head popped out from behind the curtain and looked directly at me.

“She's dead” she said. I felt a scream rise in my mouth, but nothing escaped. A rush of memories shot by on a film screen and then I heard the scream. It was coming from somewhere deep within the earth. As I was coming to grips with these oddities the same nurse spoke again.

“Wait we got her back... she's alive.”

I heard myself saying, “Alex its ok,” which morphed into “Lex we have to go,” then into “we got her back Alex.” These words floated in these 3 second snippets, duelling back and forth. Then finally the ‘Alex’ morphed into Lex which became a pleading “Lex let's get out of here." I raised my half-closed eyes, shook off the daymare and slowly rose to my feet. Peter stood before me with a twinkling smile.

“C’mon lets go.”

We stumbled, laughing, through the broken furniture, rat feces, and shattered glass, bursting free into the quiet morning of the neighbourhood. On the way home we were comrades with holes in arms. ..The train ride was a mixture of dope-fiend tall tales and half- nod laughs. By the time we pulled into Newark we were sad to see our new friend go.Two hours before, he had almost cut Peter's throat, but now the misery of addiction had us in hug swapping, hand slapping, nose itching goodbyes. The train started slowly again and jostled us back into our seats.. I stared out of the grime- streaked window, thinking of all the lives in all of the houses that whisked by..What was happening in the little apartment ,so close to the train that the noise must have been part of the family.What evil was being done in that yard with the leaf-filled dirt encrusted pool.And so on and so on as the real lives melted before me. My eyes slowly half closed I gave a quick smile to Peter and then my head slumped in sleep,banging gently on the glass. Suddenly my world turned white, not the sun-filled joyous white of the morning, no it was the bland, awful white of a sheet- covered body at the morgue. Everything slowly morphed into a greyish black.A fog filled darkness opened up onto a street filled with children laughing, yelling and playing.

Suddenly, there I was and from out of the crowd came a single voice,

"First to see the streetlights go on."

I turned to see who had won the night contest with no prize and then waited for the whistle, my father's shrill signal that its was time to come home. I waited but instead of my call to get the fuck home;' the street turned dark.Not the darkness of the blind but of the dead. I felt for a light and was slowly rewarded with a grave-robbers awakening. In the air I could make out Richie Haven's voice,

"Don't mind me, I ain't nothing but a dream".

Then the music got fainter and more cacophonous. I was alone, all alone. Except for a single shadow across from me on the other side of the street. It was illuminated by a fire burning in a trash barrel. Slowly it came into focus. It was my grandfather., My dead grandpa.

“What are doing here, Where are you going?” I called out. He pointed down the road. I started towards him.He waved both hands pleading me to stop. I just wanted to hold him one last time, kiss him on his weathered cheek, feel his warmth that I felt so rarely in my life.

"Can I come with you?” I pleaded.

“No”! "You have a life to live".He pointed towards the night sky and slowly walked away. I was about to follow him ,when from behind I heard a voice.

" Next stop Asbury Park".Again, a little louder this time,"Asbury Park"

The train slowed to a dream ending halt. I awoke startled and gazed over at Peter, he looked at peace. At peace with the present. At peace with the past. At peace with the old man nuzzling his head on his chest.

“C’mon Pete, let's go were home. Peter.” I said softly . He finally stirred, giving a disgusted shrug to the old man, pushing him roughly off his shoulder. He stood up smiling, he was still fucked up.I jumped down the four steel steps of the train to the dirt of Asbury Park, glanced down the street where it's "hard to be a saint"and saw, coming closer with a Jersey City walk, our third partner Gary. He was a sport specimen turned addict, still with the all the muscle that said ’"don't fuck

with me,’" but also a grizzled street look that comes with the constant chaos that a heroin run demands. I wanted to tell him of our trials, of our death machetes, of all our troubles but I thought, for a second, that I saw worry in his eyes. Was he glad we had made it home,because we had been gone so long? Had he thought we had been busted or beat? I hastened my steps, Peter lagged sheepishly behind and as Gary threw his big hands over my shoulders his mouth came inches from my ear. He was my partner,my friend, he was going to give this tired, worn- out, dreamed- out man a glimmer of compassion. He whispered softly with a sardonic smile.

“Who got duh dope ?”

The Dreamer by Lex Parise

The head was almost obscured by the big black bee stung hands; but if one looked closely one could make out the panic ridden face of a soon to be deceased....chicken.The sound that  started to echo from its flapping beak was not a shrill scream but a soul-searching screech,that started low and started to build, until  it startled me awake on  the sudden turn at 77th street subway station where poultry became real.I blinked twice.... once.. rubbed ....and then muffled a sickness yawn...across from my now semi focused eyes was the most out-of-place ...blue-eyed blond haired boy , his hippie coiffure straying lazily down one side of his almost laughingly gorgeous face.The humorous almost macabre part of this angelic visage is that in  three short years he'd be in prison for the murder of a young mother ....he would take a lamp; when surprised suddenly during a b and e and bash her brains to a sickening silent halt but for now he was my partner ...one of two.....he was Peter...                                                             My eyes were sick- flowing tears with a  mixture of a need and unspoken sadness. My blond associate became clear ...he was giving me the headtilt to the right ,a non-verbal way of saying "look at this".I looked... it was an old man scratching his nose  rubbing his face in a half nod which embodied a lifetime of so many disappointments..I smiled. I understood what he meant... it was that hope that we too would be soon in that glorious condition .That tragic  dichotomy:

Of why have you forsaken me?..and do this in memory of me. The clatter clash of the broken and bruised subway car almost knocked our junkie Jesus to the floor and woke us to the here and now .......I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to relax my legs and stop the incessant banging of my knees....my uncle thought this was the secret to keeping thin... in fact it was one of the features of a unstoppable anxiety that had been with me since early on in my life.                  The waiting, the going, the getting  was the way of the modern Burroughs.... when we looked back in future years... going would be romanticized, waiting would be pushed far back into our memories and the getting would be the silent enemy never defeated

The walk from the subway to the house was uneventful.Except that the two hippies stood out like a cellar in Oklahoma.My dark Italian complexion made deeper by the days at the beach ,playing the pocketbook game,helped a little.The pocketbook game was the source of our new found wealth and the reason we were able to make this junk chasing excursion.The game was simple....It took three theives,an unexpecting trustful beach- going public and a pocketbook or better still a beach bag.One of the trio stationed themselves at the water's edge...he was the lookout for unsuspecting victims....when they left their blanket unattended and ventured into the water he would raise his hand ......this would start the lead accomplice running towards the bounty on that lonely Blanket...he had a blanket in his hands he was being chased my the last man of the trio and would be pushed down on the target bag or wallet and as he feigned anger he'd scoop up the ill gotten gains and chase the fake antagonist off the beach...We pulled that over 2 dozen times ....and now we could use that Bounty to cop.

The hallway was plaster filled poverty.Smelling of dinner,supper and dirt.It made it clean.The young lords the Spanish answer to the black Panthers had a store front next door.

We started up the worn out steps made quieter by the early morning .The sounds were more of a reflection of my wanting heart.....As the destination came closer my mind wandered to the plaster wall with its holes and graffiti....one passage stood out...in black scrawl "Why do you think they call it dope"I smiled a 17 year old Fuck you...to myself.....and shouted at Peter.gimme . the money ...he seemed lost in a story of my design ....what? he whispered.the moneyI said .I have it in my pocket ...ok.. gimme. As he handed it to me.he knocked..... a short pudgy woman ;her light blue house dress stained with a dozen meals.Papi what you need?Her voice had that sweet tone that the money in my hand had manufactured.We copped 35 capsules(first and last time ever had capsule dope).Took 3 apiece for our own private cookers.  I hid 19 in my sock while a more paranoid peter stuck his in a hole in the wall...Peter and I calmly took our works..The eye dropper had a pacifier attached to it with a rubber band wrapped tightly around the neck ,to give it a whoosh....I tore a piece of a dollar bill a small strand of in god we trust and handed to peter and did one for myself ..I placed it in my mouth, wet it and wound it on the tip of that glass dropper ,this "collar" would keep the steelback needle secure......that done I placed the hypo down gently on my pants leg and started to empty the 3 capsules into my spoon ;while peter used his old bottle cap with wire handle, it was a matter of preference...Even though our Spanish lady would not allow us to get off in her apt;she had supplied us with a glass of water ,generosity knows no bounds.My spoon full. I carefully sucked up the water into the dropper....and squirted it slowly into my white powered blackened covered spoon.....I raised the mixture with a surgeons care, lit a bic and slowly cooked my concoction....the white became a lite Brown water.....picking up the dropper I sucked the liquid up using a tiny piece of cotton to collect all the  germs,all the disease,all the hepatitis,all the dreams,loves and innocence;The small dirty white ball protected us from it all.After a flicking of the finished product to remove any death-dealing bubbles  I slid the piece of dulled steel into my  belt wrapped arm .I was waiting for the bubble  looking at  the glass tube, for a bubble of blood a delicious bubble of blood ; So I would  know that I  had a hit and then I could slowly  squeeze the pacifier and shoot the brown  liquid and  wait for the warmth of the drug the  all-encompassing warmth of "the"drug...because nothing could replace the feeling of no more worries no more problems no more dirt no more lost loves no more shattered dreams no more dead grandfathers  no more......

 ....we booted the liquid a half a dozen times sending the blood back into the arm to maybe capture a glimpse of the initial rush...but eventually we pulled the dropper from our scarred pit and hastily sanitized it with 2 or 3 squirts of water..from the wound in my arm flowed a river of blood slowly making its way towards th cliff of my forearm dripping 1 2 3 4 5 drops onto my jeans it made pattern a silly deliberately recognizable face of despair thec6th and 7th drops changed the face to a pool of blue dirt ...which my wrist swiftly smeared into a distant memory .... It was time to go and I went to retrieve the other caps from the wall but they had fallen behind ..I shouted at the wall.FUCK...I knocked at the door ...Our dope fell behind the wall ....sorry nuthin I can do.. you have to go ,too much in hallway ...go now ..I protested...I need to get the ...No she screamed..you have to go now...Peter said c'mon lets get out of here.....We scurried sleepily down the steps at the almost bottom we were greeted with....

Whose got duh dope.? .....A machete wielding Spanish take off artist said with an angry sing-song accent and a  anger intensified by a craving and a little jealousy at theses white boys copping and getting high without him........the brown handle cutter that was raised in one motion to Peter's throat....again with a more throaty guttural snarl came "who got duh dope"?......Wait I said... looking into the pinned pleading eyes of peter ....stop ok stop I was about to reach down into the sock hideaway..when a wonderful George Harrison obscure album burst upon the my thought process, the wall ...I said triumphantly.   The dope is behind the wall I pleaded.....the blade dug deeper into my almost bent backwards partner's now bleeding skin..   ..no! no really! it's behind the wall ,upstairs; I looked skyward with an encouraging nod... it fell behind the wall; come  on I'll show you..our attacker looked puzzled pensive..... should he cut deeper or go take a look... Ok show me ...lets go show me.We walked slowly up the steps like a coal miners after a long day....filthy with hope but tired with the tragedy of it all.

The wall fell like the crumbling ideals of the Roman Empire..screaming Spanish and English combinations of" what the fuck are you doing."... my delightful dope dealer was livid...my new machete man told her in spanglish to shut the fuck up. behind that shattered wall sitting on a cross beam was that playtime bag of capsules of no-pain....Machete man grabbed it and I tailed him down the steps I heard in ever decreasing shouts...." don't you ever come back"...my mind didn't give a Fuck about that. I was buzzing incessantly in my nemesis ear ...trying to reason with my new FRIEND....hey! part of that dope is mine..  hey! we need to split THAT...hey, we're partners on that.hey, you know I was the one told you in was in the wall...hey, hey, !Where are you going...hey! hey! .. he turned to me with an exasperated look.. ok just shut up! I smiled inside, motioned to peter to come on and followed my new-found friend into a abandoned house;to become blood brothers in a heroin kind of way....

So the ritual was repeated; it is  not worth describing .Suffice to say the bargain between the new-found fiends was along the lines of  ...The bags were divvied up. The works,the belts, the blood, the booting ,the head bob and then my head nod; my nod melted into a silent, soulful

sleep,that finally turned black without my knowledge. Then a bright light a white bright light made me take notice that this brightly lit room smelled of alcohol and misery.

Behind a blue curtain stood a group of shadowy figures all moving and gesturing like Chinese shadow puppets.Suddenly a head pops out of the shadows and looks matter of factly at me.....She's dead she says.....I feel a scream come to my mouth but nothing escapes ...a rush of memories shoots by on rapid machine-gun film screen. and then I hear the scream but realize its coming from somewhere deep within the earth....As I come to grips with these oddities  the same death dealing puppet nurse speaks again ...Wait we got her back.. she's alive...I hear myself telling myself ....alex its ok......which morphs into lex we have to go.. then into ... we got her back alex......these words floated in these 3 second dueling back and forth and back and forth . Then finally the "Alex" morphed into lex which became a pleading... lex let's get out of here" ....I raised my wonderfully half closed eyes shook off the daymare and slowly rose to my feet ..Peter stood before me a twinkle smile in his pinned eyes.Cmon lets go. We stumbled laughingly through the broken furniture rat feces a d shattered glass,bursting free into the quiet morning of the neighborhood.On the way home we were comrades with holes in arms...The train ride was a mixture of dope-fiend tall tales... and half nod laughs...By the time we pulled into Newark we were sorry to see our new-found friend go...two hours before he had almost cut Peter's throat but now the misery of addiction had us in a hug swapping hand slapping nose itching goodbyes...The brain drain train started slowly again and whacked us back into our seats then slowly lets us move on.I stared out the grime streaked window... thinking of all the lives in all the houses that whisked by.....what was happening in the little apartment so close to the train that the noise must have been part of the family and what evil was being done in that yard with the leaf-filled dirt encrusted pool.and so on and so on as the real lives melted before me.My eyes slowlyhalf closed I gave a quick nod smile at Peter and then my head slumped in sleep banging gently on the glass.It was suddenly white not the sunfilled joyous white of the morning no it was the bland awful white of a sheet covered body at the morgue that was slowly morphed into a grayish black and that fog filled darkness opened up into a street ; a street filled with kids:laughing yelling and playing.Suddenly I was there and from out of the crowd came a single voice "first to see the street lights go on"I turned to see you had won the night contest with no prize felt the knowledge that it had been youI smiled inside and then;I waited for the whistle, my father's shrill signal that is was time to come home....I waited.. but instead of my call to get the fuck home..... the street turned dark .I was alone,all alone.Except for a single shadow across from me on the other side of the street.It was illuminated by a flickering, spitting fire burning in a trash barrel.Slowly it came into focus it was my grandfather,my dead grandpa.I called out ;what are doing here .Where are you going?He pointed down the road..I started towards him .He waved both hands pleading with me to stop.I just wanted to hold him one last time kiss him on his weathered cheek; feel his warmth that I felt so rarely in my life.I asked "can I come with you?He nodded no.He pointed towards the night sky and slowly walked away.From behind I heard a voice" next stop Asbury Park".

The train slowed to a dream ending halt.....I gazed over at Peter, he looked at peace ...at peace with the present ...at peace with the past ....at peace with the old man nuzzling his head on his blond locks...cmon Pete let's go were home ...Peter I softly screamed... he  finally stirred gave a disgusted shrug to the old man .pushing him roughly off his shoulder....and stood up smiling he was still fucked up...I jumped down the four steel steps to the dirt of asbury park......glanced down the street where it's a  "hard to be a saint."..and saw coming closer with a jersey city walk our   third partner  ...Gary ..he was a sport specimen turned addict, still with the muscle that said "don't fuck

with me" but with a grizzled street look that comes with the constant chaos that a heroin run demands......I wanted to tell him of our trials, of our death machetes,of all our troubles but I thought for one second that I saw worry in his eyes ...was he glad we had made it home ..because we had been gone so long had he thought we had been busted or beat or had been hurt ...I hastened my steps Peter lagged sheepishly behind ..and as Gary threw his big hands over my shoulders his mouth came inches from my ear.he was my partner he was my friend he was going to give this tired worn out dreamed out man a glimmer of compassion He whispered  softly with a sardonic smile....and a slight Spanish accent.... Who got duh dope ?