Summary: You have been blind for over 10 years. During the apocalypse, you use your utmost strength in order to survive while also fending off your mixed feelings for the big bad leader of your community, the Sanctuary.
“Yeah, of course.” You responded to Marie in confusion. You opened your door and stepped inside, letting her enter as well. You shut the door behind her tightly.
Following her to sit on your bed, you fiddled with your thumbs in anxiousness. You were nervous and confused as to why Marie had been waiting for you at your door. She sounded desperate to talk to you, and your mind instantly went to the worst possible scenarios. Had Jesse gotten hurt? Had she gotten hurt? What had happened that was that drastic while you were gone?
“What’s going on?” You finally asked her, feeling the bed shift slightly as she adjusted her position. “What happened?”
I dozed for a few minutes after uttering a small and weak prayer.
I woke up and felt like I was alive again and am now walking to an event I have tonight. This event is so important because I’m presenting the Young Adult Ministry that I’ve been working on for so long. I’m also inviting the young adults present to the kick off Adoration night and Bible Study.
Satan, I call you out by name. You lost. Suck it up, you pathetic creature. You will always lose.
And so now I walk. The sun is setting. The wind is blowing. The music in my ears is empowering me. The fire within me will not die.
I make friends when walking down a
street, because a Jay is pretty good at that and I talk with lots of
things. And some of them are pretty surprised a Jay can talk to them
– sometimes even that they can talk! – but my new friend isn’t
“I have an uncle who is a tornado.”
“Everyone talks about him. Not just
other winds. The waves. Storms.” The zephyr let’s out a sigh
smaller than it is. “Even the earth knows his name.”
“Oooh! So you’re all kinds of
sad-face about being a gentle breeze?!”
“Yes. I’ve felt you change winds.
Move storms. Make things – more. Bigger. Terrifying!” Each word a
gust, and after the zephyr barely manages a whisper: “Change me.
“Jaysome is jaysome; it doesn’t
have to be like that you know!” I stop walking so it isn’t tired
when following a Jay. No one else is about. “Honcho knows that
change isn’t always a helping. Sometimes help is learning to be
you, not wanting to be other things. It’s a happiness if no
one knows your name like they know tornadoes and typhoons and lots of
other things starting with t I bet!”
“But I’m so small.”
“Uh-huh. And they were too once. They
grew, and you can too: but you don’t have to grow the way they
did. You can be big and not be feared!”
The breeze quivers when I’m firm like
a Jay, but keeps on going too!
“But you are big. You are Jay, of the
bindings, and the wind that howls between the worlds knows your
“Well, I am jaysome. But
that’s me being me and making friends and doing loads of helpings.
Being big is more this -.”
And I reach, for a moment. Down inside,
but also sideways and upside-ahead as well. It’s not waking up. (it
hurts.) It’s not – it –
I let go. Push it away, and back, and
far to the edges of jaysome. I think I almost don’t manage it, but
I’m not sure because it’s the biggest binding I’ve ever done!
I’m sweating and I have a headache, which is pretty new and my head
doesn’t want to stop aching.
“… that is very big,” the zephyr
says in a voice so small I almost don’t hear it.
“Uh-huh! There are lots of kinds of
big, and some bigs even a Jay doesn’t want to be. Being small is
better since it’s hard to big like a storm and not hurt and have
people scared of you!”
“Thank you,” the breeze says, and
goes off to be a breeze and nothing like a storm at all!
I head back to the hotel and hope
Honcho can help with my headache.
Dave Heath Poets Leroi Jones and Allen Ginsberg, 7 Arts Coffee Gallery, New York City 1959
Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad edged silly music the wind Makes when I run for a bus…
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up To my daughter’s room and heard her Talking to someone, and when I opened The door, there was no one there… Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands
–Leroi Jones, “Preface to a 20 Volume Suicide Note” 1961
For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894-1956
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm–and your memory in my head three years after– And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud–wept, realizing how we suffer– And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An- swers–and my own imagination of a withered leaf–at dawn– Dreaming back thru life, Your time–and mine accelerating toward Apoca- lypse, the final moment–the flower burning in the Day–and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed– like a poem in the dark–escaped back to Oblivion– No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship- ping each other, worshipping the God included in it all–longing or inevitability?–while it lasts, a Vision–anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul- dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant–and the sky above–an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to–as I walk toward the Lower East Side –where you walked 50 years ago, little girl–from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?–toward Newark– toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards– Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream–what is this life? Toward the Key in the window–and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk–in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater–and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now–Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on the street, firs escapes old as you –Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me– Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe–and I guess that dies with us–enough to cancel all that comes–What came is gone forever every time– That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret–no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end– Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul–and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger–hair and teeth–and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it–Done with yourself at last–Pure –Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all–before the world– There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands– No more of sister Elanor,–she gone before you–we kept it secret you killed her–or she killed herself to bear with you–an arthritic heart –But Death’s killed you both–No matter– Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks–forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human- ity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar –by standing room with Elanor & Max–watching also the Capital ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave–lucky to have husbands later– You made it–I came too–Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer–or kill –later perhaps–soon he will think–) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now –tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt–what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first–to you–and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark–that–in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon–Deaths- head with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have–what you had–that so pitiful–yet Tri- umph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower–fed to the ground–but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore–freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife–lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy–even in the Spring–strange ghost thought some–Death–Sharp icicle in his hand–crowned with old roses–a dog for his eyes–cock of a sweatshop–heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out–clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts–begotten sons–your Communism–‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. His life passes–as he sees–and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Im- mortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through to talk to you as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson’s horses –headed to the End. They know the way–These Steeds–run faster than we think–it’s our own life they cross–and take with them.
Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, mar- ried dreamed, mortal changed–Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity– Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing–to praise Thee–But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won- derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping –page beyond Psalm–Last change of mine and Naomi–to God’s perfect Darkness–Death, stay thy phantoms!