ANDYconrad: electroJOURNAL

The panic attacked me,
So I undressed myself and strapped on my stethoscope.
Bystanders, can’t you hear the marching and the timpani drums?
They’re louder than bombs.

The first intrusion was a sense of confusion.
So, I closed my eyes and staggered.
My head was getting heavy and numb from the timpani drums.
They’re louder than bombs. 

Everything has changed.
The sun looks different,
But the clouds look the same.
That’s what’s so alienating.

Took a bite behind the wheel and smiled an ugly smile.  Horace Silver and I sailed into the city, heading for the loft district, strewn with fast food cups and microwaveable burrito wrappers.  Hops and other grains skimmed the highway from smokestacks.  Brick by brick I could see the ages, the aged and the aging.  Ghosts and soon to be ghosts.  The approach in the lights.  Bridges cast silhouettes of new lanes for an imaginary traffic, and the ghost traffic. 

With the pavement all around me, I saw how unnatural this all was.  Thought about 7^th street.  No one was beside me, so the gate was open.  But, I wanted the drama.  I continued on to the triumph of civil service, a symbol of forward progress and colonization and frontier glory and risk and ritual and art.  The approach of the city.  Its beauty from afar.  The lights.  Gateway to the rest. 

It would be nice if there was a highway drive through the arch. Horace agreed with a dissonant chord on his keys.

James and I shoveled like champions. Suburbia on a quiet lovely day, laboring manually like I never thought I would labor. It made my eyes well up sometimes as I shoved my shovel into the defiant ground. The situation. I never thought I’d be sore, hauling concrete, operating a hammerdrill and digging ditches for extra coin. Sweat poured down my head, my arms and the crack of my ass.

Every 5 minutes I would have to painfully force my body to a straight, upright position to provide relief to my burning back. Black James and I were teamed up on this clay trench delight, working it in to lay PVC to keep a suburban basement dry. The clay pushed back at our shovels like we were unwelcome invading Goliaths.

It’s “Black James” because James always made skin color a topic of conversation. His complexion was extremely dark. James was a rather stout individual with a confident gait, walrus-long pearly white teeth with a few gold caps barely visible when he spoke, and a jet black mustache so thick it probably needed to be combed daily. James was probably just shy of 60 years old. He had grey patches peppered all around his ears and poking out of his ears.

The suburban owner we were digging for dragged his right foot a little and always had a saliva bubbles in the right corner of his perpetually smirking mouth, like he’d had a stroke. He walked his beautiful Airedale incessantly. We sat there staring at the guy as he humbly and sadly hobbled with his rigid, physically sturdy dog. We rested like always – on upside-down plastic buckets at break time. James muttered in a condescending tone, “They love their dogs.” I knew immediately that he meant “those crazy white people.”

James just cracked into a story unannounced, which was usual. And, it was typically a story that wasn’t triggered by anything. They would just fall out of his mouth like someone had put a coin in him and randomly chose something on a jukebox. He started, “Well, I been sellin’ some cars. Had a few white boys come out to look at one.” I replied, “You sell cars?”  He barked back, “Ya I sell cars! I do alotta things. You don’t think I just dig ditches, do you?” I quickly retorted, “No, no, I just didn’t know you sold cars.”

James went on defiantly, “Well… that’s what I do… I sell cars. I also worked twenty-five years sellin’ cigarettes. I wore a suit. I had to look sharp to sell them things. Never smoked ‘em until recently, then I go and get hooked on these goddamn things,” he said, as a foot-long menthol cigarette bounced around on his lower lip.

“Anyway, these two white boys came out to my place to look at this car I had. Same kinda car Superfly drove.” He reflected up at the sky, “ ’72 El Dorado… Superfly’s car was souped up with, you know… all that extra shit.” James stared at me as he gasped for air and took a big loud gulp of Styrofoam cup water. “Anyway, these guys start complaining to me, on my fuckin’ property… they got some kinda nerve.. about the price of the car! I said, ‘Look, this is a black man’s car anyway. So, what are you boys doin’ here anyway? You knew how much I was asking for it. So’d you just come here, come to my home, to complain to me about the price? Well, I’m not sellin’ you the car anyway. This is a black man’s car and you don’t need to be ridin’ around in a black man’s car. It’s best you boys just go on home and stop wastin’ my time with wantin’ a black man’s car, cuz it just ain’t for you.”

 

“Wow”, I said. “So you didn’t sell them the car!”

 

“No… I wouldn’t sell ‘em the car,” he said with a long drawl and wide eyes. “They don’t need to be ridin’ around in a black man’s car. That’s just the way it is. I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not sorry at all. That’s a black man’s car and I’m gonna keep it that way,” he said, with an arm flourish and a big thick toke from his cigarette.

The quake in the sand

Is a minor mistake

Granted by the unknown cattle-driving king of the satellites.

 

Overloaded systems of electrical sanity

Were once on the verge of a playful elasticity,

Where every morsel was confined to dustpans

Arranged for stagehands

With clubs in their hands,

Tied to battle flags

Dug in the sand.

 

We pretend to be lovers

When we discover

A ladle in each hand.

 

Pointy sharp thistles

Whistle to birdsongs

Nestled together like low gliding rings of light-

Hoops of sound moving by the pull of the moon

Through shuttles of comfort

Delivered on beds in the night.

 

Groups of multi-legged monsters creep

In the steep of the sliced citrus,

Begging for a taste of our waste

We'll never notice,

Although, someone told us

They'd hold us

With pillars and beams and old fashioned steam.

 

Now the way in the wave on the flag

With rebels gave way

To the will of the people

Minus steeples.

Capital hatchlings squak,

Welp,

And forget to help

Under the guise of the wise,

But I don't care

Because I have my own device.

 

The semi-sweet undercurrent

Arrives in a hurry every time I stop,

Sold out because I let everyone in.

So, the sky sucks me in-

To the tune of a bronze-forged giveaway

That my uneven monster put up for rent.

 

So, I'll unwind like I'm blind

Just to keep with the times-

A drink in a hand,

Cares at my feet,

Shoulders hung low,

Devils shoved to-and-fro,

Their talons turned in because I prove I'm better at sin.

 

And the tide takes me out

For one last drink

Until I'm forced to think

About the dunes

And the ruins

That kept us from light.

 

My other hand wields a pen

That's sharp without paper,

Without a thought,

Without a fountain,

Without being taught-

It's just a friend.

Today, we walked along the hard streets to a soft lunch. Today, we hoped to only skip over splotches of sun-baked urine and hold our breath near dumpsters.

The sun spliced through buildings, and the two of us squinted with quips for the morning doldrums and ho-hums along with the wholesome bits of what the afternoon should be. We gathered the sidewalk step by step. A homeless man stood in the shade of a building and wrestled with a sardine can. The sardine juice hit his shirt and he mumbled a cartoon disgust. The homeless man was so thrilled with his sardines, he never noticed the flurry descending around him. Our eyes were caught by feathers dancing on the cement. The feathers were fresh and downy. Two more drifted from the sky into the dance.

We looked up. A hawk in a clever eagle's outfit lurked above us. His pronged beak rudely pointed at us. His hateful eyes stared at every single person on the street at once, but I suspected he was burning my soul. I felt like I had seen him before. 

The hawk was also dancing, atop ragged pigeon flesh. He pulled and pulled as if the pigeon was about to get away. The unlucky bird was burst open, splayed across a decorative metal shade structure, where the hawk safely played. We never lost a step.

We paid and paid for lunch. The hawk was forgotten. We traced our steps back. But, there stood a friendly reminder. The homeless man was still chattering, but with half of his wrinkly left index finger buried in his nose. At the last second, I looked up to see that the bastard hawk had left his bloody pigeon coat draped above me. My eyes slowly scanned the corners of several buildings to see if he was still watching. I think he was, but from where? 

Everyone told me I’d go far. No one told me I’d never arrive.

I crossed the cross of two major intersections.

My heart rate suddenly shot to red line! I vacuumed in every molecule of oxygen with a desperate gasp. Adrenaline shot through my veins and my face tingled. My face withered. My passed down, old gold, cracked vinyl dashboard Volvo with cassette player and breeze-flapping ceiling upholstery was forced into a screeching halt. My foot crushed the brake. Summer haunted every pore of skin on my face. The broken air-conditioner kept me firmly tacked to my seat.

An old man instantaneously came into view, perched in an oversized white motorboat, gurgling directly in front of me. The old whitey had his feeble arm waving over and outside his artfully lowered power window.

An unoccupied, old model Mercedes hovered in my front right. It had been blinded in my periphery by the old man’s boat.

I sat mentally hijacked for a moment… until an unattractive Olive Oil unrolled and inflated from the front of her Mercedes, flailing her arms in the air and shouting,

“I didn’t see him, I didn’t see him!”

I stared at her for a moment as the sun glared and squinted me through my windshield. My eyes scanned my brain… “The unattractive lady’s car had hit someone,” my brain exhaled.

Traffic piled up. And in typical fashion, the lines of impatient, rumbling metal boxes behind me were singing a dissonant song.

To my own surprise, I left my car in the middle of the road. I trotted stiffly over to the scene, much like the group of dazed deer still sitting in their cars. None of us were confident about getting involved.

I saw a decrepit man lying in the street. His face was rugged. It was wrinkly, scraggly and dusty. His full, dark hair was beyond greasy. It was dusty too.

Stretched out on the asphalt, and pivoting on his hip, the dusty man tried to pick up his stocking cap, which I assumed had been blown off by the impact. His arms were pitifully outstretched. I glanced to my right as I approached him and saw where his dusty body had cracked the Mercedes grill and the weepy doe eyes of the homely lady.

“I didn’t see him,” she cried.

“I’m all right… yous couldn’t-na been goin’ dat fast… yous only knocked me a few feet,” gasped the downed dusty man.

I stood over him, pleading with him to stay on the ground. My hands were flat out, pumping like flashing stop signs in an effort keep him still… without actually touching him. All the while horns tweaked through the air, and so did this weak, scratchy voice. It was the old whitey from the white boat.

I stared at the guy on the road as he muttered something about a bank.

Suddenly, I was somewhat embarrassed, still selfishly aware of the impromptu stage I was on as the crowd booed and jeered.

No one else emerged from the crowd to help. I am no saint, so who are these other people?

It didn’t look like the guy was going to die, at least not from being hit by a Mercedes. He smelled like rotten lettuce and his clothes were splattered and crusty. I’m sure he didn’t own a mailbox.

Could it have been his troubling appearance that was keeping everyone cowering in their cars?

He kept trying to get up. Even after pleas to “stay on the ground until the ambulance arrives…”

"Wait, did someone call an ambulance," I thought.

He again insisted on going to the bank! His head nodded knowingly, up and down.

“This guy has a bank?” I muttered.

He started to get on his feet and was wobbling around on what looked like a broken chicken leg. People had gathered. Some came up to me to ask if he was okay. Others kept a safe distance by standing on the curb. That dirty little skinny leg was just flapping around. It was sticking out of the bottom of some high-water trousers. Was he in shock? I don’t know, I guess.

Even worse, and unbelievably, he already had a crutch. Olive Oil had been holding it for him the whole time. When she handed it back to him I remember thinking, “Boy, they were fast getting that crutch here!”

My semi-entertaining thought was interrupted by that grating, feeble voice again… the one that lurked behind me from the white boat. It was the same phrase over and over but it wasn’t computing. I was trying to focus on the puzzle in front of me.

The dusty man was getting up no matter what, so I decided to lend my hand. I reached out, grabbed his arm, slipped the crutch under his arm, and, then, as if I was the victim of an elaborate practical joke, the homeless man’s crutch slipped from beneath his putrid armpit and jammed effortlessly into my cheekbone! I glanced around with a numbed cheek and perforated smile to see if a tv show host and his lovely hostess were heading in my direction with a microphone, an oversized cardboard check made out to me and a waiver to sign. No one was there.

Helping him to the curb, while delicately trying not to come into contact with too much of him, was quite a challenge. And to complicate things, this little guy, with the chicken leg that was hit by a Mercedes, was attempting to bite through the foil seal on top of one of those grade school-style orange juice cups. You know, one of those little 4- or 5-ounce jobs.

That feeble little voice behind me was rising above the fog of dying horns.

I turned around and it was that old man in that white old man boat, pointing at me and saying, “You got a helluva lotta nerve honkin’ your horn at me, Sonny!” I hadn’t honked my goddamn horn! I was helping this guy in the street!

I charged up to his window and had a few razor sharp phrases to spit into his window. But, his pointy, hairy finger and hand were trembling, slightly.

Calmly, I started with, “Come on, man, I'm trying to help these people... I wasn’t honking…”

So.

After hollering at me for minutes, the old bastard was satisfied with our 5-second chat about horns and ready to tackle the rest of his day. He’s driving away!

Now?

Bye, bye old man…

As the white boat curiously sailed away, I tapped the homeless man on his crusty shoulder and told him it would be okay. A sad, little cloud of dust floated away from his woolen sweater. Pigpen.

I believe in extraterrestrials because I believe in bugs.

“She used to like me, now she just loves me.”

On the road, I’m signing in as a visitor with my smelly pen, where I use my long sleeve as a protective glove to open and close the door. I’m tip-toeing, trying to float above the hair carpet. The walls are a little slimy black book. A silvery door handle serves as a micro-landfill. My reflection’s ancient in the blemished mirror. The olfactory experiment enables my fight or flight instinct. I rely on very minimal breathing, in case there are airborne, invisible monsters that could possibly be sucked into my body. If it’s deafeningly quiet, you can hear the microscopic screams like a psychotic Stravinsky-inspired chorus.

Never trust a politician with an elaborate comb-over because there's already a cover-up.

When someone dies of a dread disease, please refrain from saying "Joe Blow lost his battle with..." First of all, it sounds stupid. Secondly, have some respect. The person just died and you're calling them a 'loser!'

A compromise for the fundamentalist and the scientist: God does exist, but lives on another planet in another galaxy. Wow, war is over. That was easy.

Or, a Cooper’s Hawk. These conniving, dead-eyed bastards have been hovering and swooping around my yard all summer. I hear their shrill call high above the tree line and wonder if they’re going to sink their dirty, serial killer talons into the tense muscles on my shoulders.

These eagle wannabes drop small dead bird bombs all around my yard and send bones crashing onto the sidewalk. I imagine those soulless swoopers, perched on the highest branches, eating their prey like greasy chicken wings. Turning each one over and over. Examining every inch to make sure all the goodies have been stripped and devoured. Then, when they’re satisfied, they just drop-kick their mangled bag of bones from their bloody perch.

My simplest days were often interrupted by carcasses lying about with heads pulled off and entrails thrashed upon. One seemingly quiet day, as I approached my house for a lunchtime, economical snack, I spied a hawk on a low hanging branch, staring at me with his dead hawk eyes. There he was with his calculating stare, bulky chest and asshole face. We stared at each other for ten seconds as I murmured, “ You little bastard.” I slowly and cautiously squatted, then blindly swept my hand along the ground to find a rock, keeping my furrowed brow and menacing eyes fixed on my feathered friend. The perfect stone rolled into my hands. I gathered myself ever-so carefully. Now that I think about it, I’m sure that  self-confident chicken hawk knew what I was up to, he just didn’t think I had the skills to make the shot.

Well… that stone left my outstretched fingers with a quick snap of my arm and wrist. “Oooooohhh, shit,” I nervously whispered, as the rock formed the perfect arch, heading for my astute buddy. He just sat there as my face puckered. Then, that stone hit one of his butcher talons.

What’s so strange and eerie about a bird is that their expressions never change. They just pivot and move.

The hawk stared through my soul then let out a shriek and let go of the branch, panicking and flying erratically. I think he was fearful of another attack. In his moment of terror he scraped a nearby tree line. He had to re-land on a branch, gather himself, then disembark once again. How embarrassing for him.

For the record, the stone throw was not a fastball, but more like a lob. It’s illegal to kill a hawk. But, no one said you couldn’t throw a little stone at their little bastard hawk talon to keep them from dropping feathers and guts onto your children's sandbox. I haven’t seen a hawk or carrion flesh since then.