| Myron Michael Hardy |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
Red Pulp Underground
(1) When I came to understand drug addiction, the headlights of an oncoming car flashed on my face. I shielded my eyes with a hand, hoping to see the moving shadow in the street. How it came head on strong, I was broken into pieces, fragments of trying to see his life, my life illuminated. Afraid. Afraid I was to— trust the light. Afraid I was too, with him, my father thou art singing the blues, driving a heroin coup, eyes watery from holding tears. If I knew better, I’d say let them go, but I’ve yet to teach my body that trick. (2) He can’t walk away, so it’s best he watch, if not for misery, mystery. How fast she’ll fall to pieces, the body jerks to get free. He wishes his legs could kick like hers. But here at San Pablo and West Grand, Oakland is a Bermuda triangle. People are missing. People disappear here in search of new and old selves. (3) Mandela said don’t be afraid of light, everybody carries it. It’s in the spirit of hands; move them around. It’s in the manifestation of truth; and the truth is, I’ve a habit of moving out of the road too soon— playing it safe. Living to let live, and letting what I’ve learned from habit bell-curve into slipshod thinking— No one is superman. You can play hero, but Jesus was a carpenter. (4) That car crashed, smashed bumper into tree. And he got out, the left side of his body hanging on his bones, found another car, revved up the engine. I stood again in the street when I saw him coming, it coming. Imagine—same headlights, same play on words. The second time light shined in my face. I called out his name; the car didn’t break. He didn’t. We’ve been crashing ever since. Again and Again. |