City Knives (Download here)

An Ordered, Yet Detailed, Itemized List of the Personal Effects Left Behind By One Del Masterson, Aged 90, Inventoried By the Staff of Pine Bluff Retirement Villa

- Twenty (20) napkins, each bearing the insignia of a restaurant that Subject had (presumably) dined at, or perhaps, at least, had loitered in the lobby of;

- One (1) stack of graying, chapped photographs, bound together by twine, the photographs depicting numerous Important Events in Subject’s life (i.e. first communions of numerous ginger-haired progeny; weddings populated by the stiff, weary smiles of newlyweds; at least one funeral, where Subject, dashing in grey pinstriped suit, tries bravely to grin through unkempt, wiry mustache);

- Sixteen (16) stamped, addressed letters, still in their respective envelopes, all written in the same shaky hand, addressed to various progeny, demanding lifestyle updates, pictures of ginger-haired, but loved, grandchildren, and, above all else, visits (one can sense the desire, nay, need for any sign of life and/or guarantee of impending familial human contact dripping through the scrawled pleasantries);  these letters, more often than not, remained unsent, a detail not lost on Cataloguer;

- One (1) playbill from 1996 community theatre presentation of “Arsenic and Old Lace” (this item remains a mystery, because further delving into the exact reason why Subject would possess said playbill, when no known relatives ever participated in any known community theatre presentation, would require further investigation into whether or not Subject had an inner life, an inner life that demanded he sign himself out on Saturdays and watch sketchy local thespians act out their family issues and fear of audiences on a scratched, dulled slate stage;  this sort of examination and close-quarters makes Cataloguer weary and just a bit uneasy; Cataloguer would like to move on);

- One (1) framed sepia-toned photograph of Perfect Nuclear Family; PNF, consisting of one (1) smiling wife, one (1) smiling husband, and two (2) smiling urchins (non-ginger-haired), carry with them the vague sense of unrest, as though they are simply wax figurines, sculpted into shiny-faced satisfaction/contentment/bliss; further perusal of photograph reveals that picture of PNF most likely came included with purchased frame, as no one has been able to locate PNF’s whereabouts, and picture itself bears the pixelated, thin allure of Mass Production, not to mention a telltale barcode;

- One (1) worn, folded-over street map of Greater Chicago Area; Subject had written, in margins, various phone numbers of Presbyterian churches in area (this brings up, yet again, an important mystery, previously touched-upon, one that Cataloguer is loathe to touch upon yet again, but will anyway - the assumption that Subject was little more than a shell of a man, in ill-fitting grey slacks and white sweatshirt, simply can not be; Subject was looking for something, indeed, spent his Twilight Years looking for something, something presumably resting in the Bosom of the Greater Chicago Area);

- Six (6) bottles/containers of assorted muscle relaxers that Subject ingested with military-like discipline and diligence (Cataloguer can only admire Subject’s willingness to sit still and let something so smaller then himself wield such a tight rein over his body; would that the oceans be tamed by a whistle, or something equally as hyperbolic)

***

I tell myself that I can’t take much more
But God knows that it’s only begun
That feeling of being invincible and
Headed towards the heart of the sun

And my ears don’t function like they used to do
It sounds like I am under the sea
Drifting in and out of consciousness
I have to focus when you’re talking to me

Last night I dreamt you broke me out of here
and took me to a house by the sea
You let your hands come close to touching mine
and I felt like I was finally free

The nurses keep stealing my photographs
And pretend that they don’t know who you are
Lafayette’s only an hour away
And I swear I heard you driving your car

So keep an open eye and let me drive
I’ll take the curves as slow as I can
We’ll hit the ocean and we won’t be scared
We’ll be fearless ‘til the waves push us back

And you can make me look like anyone
I’ll disguise myself to fit what you need
I’ll sharpen up my words like city knives
And talk until your hands start to bleed

***

(Cataloguer can remember one particular night, although the month escapes him at the present moment, where Subject flagged down Cataloguer as the latter ambled past the former’s room; the Cataloguer desperately trying to avoid some sort of humanity-lessening post-dinner task and the Subject merely looking for someone to talk to, or at, or near, or whichever;  Cataloguer remembers the far-off, misted glance in Subject’s eyes, how his hands shook, but only when he had to handle small, seemingly-inconsequential items [such as pill bottles or eyeglasses cases], how he asked for extra pudding and how Cataloguer felt a duty to give the man as much damned pudding as he wanted, and also the tiny favor Subject granted to Cataloguer of making the entire world, gaping and dark as it was, seem wholly manageable; these are things Cataloguer will never forget)

(we drove to the ocean one time, he seemed so happy and light, and gravity didn’t seem so cruel that day)