Nothing To Say

Subterranean Tales

 Ohm

 He fancies himself as a gentleman of sorts, partaking in some of the finer things in life. He shops for his suits at Brooks Brothers and Nordstrom’s, paying particular attention to the cut and hemming. His jackets must be precisely one half inch shorter than what other men consider a normal length. His cufflinks and sleeves must always be showing as to bring more attention to the jacket itself. This in his opinion leaves the option to accessorize the color of the shirt, more than the actual jacket. Let’s say you have a pair of Dockers khakis and a navy blue blazer. A white button down would go nicely, the obvious choice, but why not offset it with a blaring shade of bright yellow? Then to capitalize on that concept, a matching handkerchief would offset that outfit perfectly; bringing together the entire ensemble that would not “normally” be fashionably acceptable. His shirts, always buttoned down, always, dry-cleaned, always 100% cotton (Egyptian being his favorite) hang in his closet like soldiers awaiting orders from their commander; starched and upright, they are always at his beck and call, ready to serve their master as loyally as possible. Their one mission: to make him look as regal as possible. They hang from wooden hangers in the darkness of his closet, silent in their stance, dedicated to their reason for being created, unyielding in their loyalty to him.

He dines weekly at restaurants that cater to his eccentric yet specific taste, trying up to three different ones a week. His preferences vary from Thai, Chinese, Italian to American or your high end steakhouse. He dines alone or with a lady friend of his who he happens to fancy at the moment. He enjoys his wine, particularly cabernet sauvignon from the Rutherford region of Napa Valley; the rich, tannic, blackberry and cherry characteristics of the varietal pleasing his finicky pallet. Nickel and Nickel, Quintessa, Caymus, Jordan and Chateau Montelena are just a few heavy-hitting vineyards he admires, spending upwards of a hundred dollars or more per bottle; a drop in the bucket for a man of his financial means. The man enjoyed his cuisine and spirits as a mother cherished her own children.

After years of fighting to find his place in the work field, he had finally succeeded, finding his niche along with the other professionals that occupied his office. At first thought of as stand-offish and not sociable, he found himself the butt of many a rumor, speculating that he was a pervert or a recluse. That blew over after three months of diligent work and by helping others with their workloads or deadlines when needed or before they even asked for it. This had caught the attention of the managers and the higher-ups through word of mouth from his peers and actual observation on their part which subsequently led to a raise in salary and an acceptance by all in his workplace. He had even broken down and attended a co-worker’s birthday party at a small pub not far from their office which surprised everyone, even himself. His career was flourishing and after finding stability among everyone there, somewhat enjoyable.

This doesn’t explain his action.

In today’s climate of high unemployment, job closings, Wall Street drama, the ninety-nine and one percenters and various other troubling concerns for the average citizen, he was not affected by them whatsoever. He was living a charmed and privileged life, complete with all the perks that accompany it. There are people who would kill to be in his position in life; taking everything that he had and living life comfortably, but not him. He wasn’t satisfied with life and what it had thrown his way, and although he had many materialistic belongings to his name and a sizeable chunk of change in the bank (for one hell of a rainy day judging by all the zeros behind the first number, two), it wasn’t enough. He felt hollow and alone, his financial status and all that it could buy never providing any real satisfaction. This had been the scenario for the last five years of his life; him going to work, him smiling and nodding his head to those around him, him keeping up the appearance of a man whose shit was together while inside, The Hollow consumed him; leaving him a shell of a man.

Getting up this morning, there was nothing particularly different. There was no different buzzing from his alarm clock that went off Monday through Friday at 7:00 a.m.; it was the same air raid, too high in the decibel department for his ears, beyond annoying one that he had the displeasure of waking up to for the last year of his life, ever since he bought it on sale from a Radio Shack somewhere in the city. With its neon green display and extra-large numbers coupled with its horn of an alarm, he was never late. Damn the snooze button; the last thing he wanted to hear twice in one morning was that noise, so his ass was up and about without fail for those five days out of the week. Nothing different there.

The walk to the subway station was uneventful as well. After leaving his apartment building, he made the usual two and a half blocks walk down his street to the elevated subway stop, the entire trek taking all of ten minutes from door to station. He deftly dodged the homeless man who reeked of old socks and even older piss and booze with an easy leap over the down-trodden man’s legs which were blocking the walkway that led down into the subway station. Following the swelling mass of other commuters down onto the subway platform, the immediate and unwelcomed stench of trash, urine and body odor overwhelm his senses, causing his eyes to tear up and a clearing of his throat became necessary before he continued on. Once on the platform, he stood in the back of the morning commute pack, watching all the hordes of people rubbernecking towards the sound of the coming train, eagerness in their eyes. He too heard the train’s approach, felt the rumblings in the soles of his shoes that steadily crept of his spine, finally finding a home in his fingertips. In the time it took for him to look down to see if his hands were actually shaking or not, the train’s lights broke through the tunnel at the far end of the station, its powerful engines marching right behind them. The crowd moved back slightly and this is when he decided to make his move.

There was no hesitation in his thoughts. There was no fear or indecisiveness in his movements. No, the time for that was over some time ago. He knew from the moment he woke up until this precise time what was needed to be done. The train is a good twenty seconds from where he is standing, but he’ll only need ten of those. Looking straight ahead at the people in front of him, he takes one hand, using it to gently nudge folks aside, all the while “excuse me” and “pardon me” leave his mouth just as they turn and give him disapproving looks. Only one person is in front of him now, an elderly lady who doesn’t move at first. She only looks back at him with disgust but finally after a particularly nasty sneer moves to the side allowing him to get to the platform edge. He breathes in deeply, takes one last look around the station and is greeted with the crowd staring directly back at him, not understanding what such a finely dressed fellow was doing so close to the platform’s edge, especially with a train approaching so close to where he was. Disregarding the concerned and confused looks of strangers, he steps down, determined to reach his destination, the electrified third rail. A few onlookers yell out to him to get back onto the platform, but it is too late. He is too far gone within The Hollow; too far gone with his own suicidal tendencies.

He is down on his knees a second later and with both hands he grabs the rusted- over rail. Once contact is made, he is instantly paralyzed, his limbs not responding to his mental commands. For a split second he can still hear the crowd above and behind him but that is quickly drowned out by a steady humming, starting out low and almost inaudible, and then rapidly rising to a siren’s pitch. His eardrums expand then explode, sending his blood dripping out both canals, running down each cheek freely. He can feel their warmth and if he could still hear, he would be able to make out the splattering sound they made as they hit the wooden tracks below. His teeth clenched down into his tongue, severing it halfway through its length. The front portion of it fell to the tracks and lay in the small puddle of crimson colored blood created by his still bleeding ears. It twitched violently once or twice then lay completely still as if the air had somehow been let out of it. Although he cannot move his limbs, his eyes (at least his right eye) move up to the platform all of four feet above him. He can see the crowd now with stark horror plastered on their faces, motioning for him to get off the tracks. The elderly woman is staring at him as well, her mouth hung open in shock, spittle forming in the corners of her mouth, too shaken to do anything else.

That’s when his eyes go, bursting with a brilliant ruby spray of membranes, muscles, and nerves, leaving his sockets semi-hollow and oozing with useless vessels and shredded tissue. His hair straightens then sizzles then smokes before the scalp itself peels back a half inch from his head. All his organs rupture and gush within and he is totally unrecognizable on the outside at this point; all that is left is a form of what used to be a human, bent down on all fours, convulsing sickly fast. A loud crack is heard as his spine snaps from moving out of alignment, his back caving into a grotesque “U” shape, as if some invisible horseman straddled him during his final moments here on Earth, riding him out into Death’s doorway. In the last moments before the train hits him doing better than thirty miles an hour and smashing his mostly liquefied body along its steel reinforced grate, The Hollow leaves him, claiming yet another victim to depression.

Its work is never done.

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Heartbroken

A Perfect Circle

Around the world, my life spirals out of control

Seemingly out of sync, out of mind, never being aligned correctly…

Fucked into existence through cock and cunt, coupled with animalistic moans of unrestrained passion

Until through no choice of my own, birthed into madness and chaos

of this one world as we know.

Unwanted, uncared for

stealing rancid, putrid air for survival,

Consuming toxins and poisonous copious amounts of bullshit and half-truths.

Such is the way of humans.

Pressured into conformity, free will but a rumor.

Keeping up with Jones’ and Sneaky Smiths.’

Living the dream of the lie of the fabrication which is life.

Dying as I came into the world, shivering and pained.

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Give Me Shelter

Trick

            The beer isn’t doing the trick this time, and this is her favorite brand. The familiar cartoonish bull on the can is one she has seen time and time again: the logo of Schlitz Malt Liquor, the beer of the ‘hood.  Unlike others, she has remained loyal to the brand, consuming the above average alcohol content malt for a good part of her thirty-three years without fail. She tries to think back when she started drinking in between huge gulps from the plastic bag wrapped glass bottle, and she cannot remotely remember what year or age for that matter, it had been so long. What she does remember is her father allowing her sips of his beer as a child, him laughing as her low tolerance level was quickly reached and he would watch her stumble around the small roach-ridden apartment until she collapsed and passed out. She remembers one time vaguely. She was four, of this she was sure as it was her birthday and instead of lavishing in the attention of all her friends and family members who had come to wish her well while feasting on cake and ice cream, she had gotten drunk through no fault of her own and passed out on the bathroom floor, missing her own celebration of life. Yes, four was the age. She can still see the huge devil’s food cake with the four pink candles sticking out; still remember blowing them out, one by one, as everyone around her cheered, sang and applauded, then she draws a blank as all the beer her father had been pushing on her unbeknownst to her mother (theses secret sips had taken place in the kitchen, far from the eyes of the party guests and her mother) overtakes her and then she remembers nothing. Has it really been twenty-nine years since she first had her first drink of alcohol? She nods her head in disgust and takes another swig of her brew.

But the taste of the last guys cum still lingers on despite her almost finishing the bottle in two healthy gulps. Why do they always want to cum in her mouth and have her swallow is beyond her but the forty bucks she made for what was barley ten minutes of her time was worth it as she can get her crack and party in style without having to go back out for at least an hour or so. It’s a vicious cycle she realizes but after being hooked for well over ten years, its one she is not willing to part with. As the last remaining ounces of beer are consumed while leaning against the brick wall of the alley where she “conducts business”, she uses the last swig as a mouthwash of sorts, swishing it around, having it course between her gums and teeth before spitting it out on the damp concrete in front of her. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and reaches into the left front pocket of her black blue jeans and comes up with a half portion of a Hall’s cough drop, wrapped in its original protective paper which has grown stuck to its bottom half. This doesn’t concern her as she pops the medicine into her mouth without a second thought, spitting out the remnants of the paper once it’s wet with her saliva. It’s an old trick of hers that she learned through a fellow crack head/whore some years back and has been using ever since; the cool, minty flavor easily overpowering any bad taste in a matter of seconds. She reaches inside her right pocket reassuring herself that the money is there and it is, along with the three condoms she had purchased earlier in the evening.  With a quick adjustment of her clothes and one final look back on the ground behind her in case she dropped anything ,she moves from behind the rather large green dumpster at the end of the alley being sure to look around cautiously for passersby’s or worse, the police.

It won’t be long now, she thinks as she heads north down Lennox Avenue, being sure to stay in the light of the streetlamps as much as possible to avoid being dragged off into the dark by the local drug dealers and other fiends. The last time, they had knocked out two of her bottom teeth and even when she finally gave in to their assault with a futile bit of resistance and let them have their way with her for well over an hour in an abandon row house not too far from where she was now, they (there were three of them) had beat her unconscious. She had woke up with her pants and underwear down around her ankles and what felt to be a decent sized welt under her left eye. No, the light will be her friend tonight as she makes her way to Jay Street where all the dealers and hustlers sell broken dreams and no futures by ounces and grams.

From the alley to Jay Street took all of ten minutes and to her, it couldn’t have come sooner. The money she had made that evening (80 bucks in all; give or take five for condoms, lube, etc.) would more than take care of the craving for crack that she had for about the last two hours. To her, crack was the truth; it never lied, never failed to take her mind away from her current troubles, and always, ALWAYS was readily available, especially from her pusher, Carl. Carl had been dealing crack for well over fifteen years and she was with him from the beginning of his shady career. She was witness to his early years of corner dealings, with him having to compete with the other dealers on the very same corner, to his very own crack house; a local haven and well-known safe house for all the junkies in the surrounding neighborhood. The best thing about dealing with Carl was unlike other dealers, Carl extended credit to her whenever she would fall short of money or didn’t feel like having to give her pussy away for her high. It was because of the loyalty that she had displayed towards him during his almost two decades of hustling. Another reason she stayed with Carl was that his shit was butter; straight fire. The other work around the way was decent, her taking anything in a pinch, but Carl was a master chef, taking the time not to cut his product too much during cooking , leaving the purest rock out there. This too is what kept her coming back after all these years.

Money wasn’t a problem tonight; she had made sure to that.  In her opinion, the strange cocks and all the fucking made it worth -while for times like this. As her beer buzz quickly wore off and the anticipation of her future high quickened her pace up to Carl’s place, she almost felt happy. This feeling usually came about two minutes before she received her crack and about a minute before she took her first hit. This couldn’t last forever, this self-destructive cycle she had gotten herself in for the last twenty or so years of her life, but as she makes her way up the stairs, ringing the doorbell and waiting for the door to open, that last thought goes out the window and she steps inside to her own private hell once again.

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As If I Had Any Choice in the Matter

I am officially getting old, long in the tooth. I can feel it in everything that I do from bending over and touching my toes, to the simple act of walking up stairs, I feel it in my joints. I don’t think that its arthritis (or at least I hope not) and I’m pretty sure it’s not due to cold weather (still don’t believe that one). I’m quite positive it is in response to my body aging. I can’t control this, I have tried. I hear of all these miracle cures to prevent aging such as creams, diets, get more sleep, go organic, avoid red meat, etc… all bullshit when it comes right down to it. They may prevent you from dying earlier than say someone who disregards the above, but they won’t and will not keep your ass from getting old, no matter how much time you spend shopping for aloe vera and ginseng root extract. Tired of fighting the inevitable, I have decided to give in to my fate and accept my aging gracefully and with as less stress as possible over how I may look or be perceived by the public at large.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not pleased or remotely happy about getting old. If I could do it over again, I’d have Edward from the Twilight series siphon off a few pints of blood out of my neck, thus preserving me at twenty-seven for the rest of my life, but I have this thing about guys lips on my neck and I’m kind of fond of the B negative juice that courses through my veins. I’m taking a back seat on this one, allowing for nature to run its course and hopefully, won’t be too hard on me. No, I will not be frequenting the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet on the weekends nor will I be partaking of the ten wings for ten bucks deal at the local Popeye’s. I’m embracing my latter years and the changes that come with it responsibly; not flying off the handle and over indulging in excess (although the temptation for wings as a Black man can sometimes be overwhelming).
I only pray that I don’t pick up some incurable disease or limbs start rotting and falling off me at random stages on my journey to AARP land. I can deal with the wrinkles, poor vision and people calling me pops, but let it be with all my limbs and in somewhat good health. Unlike my father who loves to be referred to as “Old Man,” I reluctantly accept that title as yet another birthday passes and I grow a year older. Again, things I can’t control. I’ll just sit back and enjoy the ride, no matter how bumpy or how much turbulence I encounter along the way on this journey called life. If only it wasn’t so damn painful!

Taking the local into my senior years,

Gregory McCant

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Hurt

Broken, I lay in my bed, my best friend, crying for the death of me.

 My tears speak volumes of the words my mouth cannot seem to form.

They speak of sadness.

 They speak of pain.

They tell the tales of heartache and suffering entwined with a yearning and hunger for my days of youth.

My heart beats in the rhythm of despair with grief providing the tempo.

As my sheets become saturated and the down within my pillows grow moist, I envision everything and nothing, dwelling in the abyss, embracing the void that my life has become.

In the garbled, confused thoughts of my mind, only one stands out, the one without hesitation I embrace:

I am alone in this world and will forever remain.

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Lonely Man Chronicles

West Side Finale

What if every day you woke up you felt like killing yourself? What if all the words, self- help books, drugs and alcohol didn’t help and you still felt the same? What if you knew that your life was a joke and you yourself never got it although everyone else around you did? What if the sight of your own face and body in a mirror caused you to grimace in disgust? What would you do if you realized that you were going to be alone for the rest of your life despite all the efforts that you had put forth during your so called life not to be otherwise?

These questions race back in forth in his mind as he stands naked in front of the bathroom’s medicine cabinet mirror, a look of hopelessness reflected back at him. At thirty-three, he had the look of a man almost ten years his senior; a direct result of years spent indulging in cocaine, scotch and wayward women. Now all that running the streets all day and night and burning the candle at both ends has finally caught up to him mentally, and he cannot bear to go on like this for another day or minute. Looking back into the image before him, he knows what needs to be done to end all this pain and suffering. It had been building up for quite some time, now it has arrived in all its glory, ready to be birthed into this world by the naked man who fathered it.

Opening the medicine cabinet, he surveys the contents within. Tylenol, Listerine mouthwash, cotton swaps, Colgate toothpaste are among the many things occupying the two shelves within, but that is not what he is searching for. His eyes finally fall on a small, orange medicine bottle, strategically placed behind a half empty bottle of Tylenol. It is in his right hand before he realizes that he was reaching for it. Turning the bottle’s label around with both hands, it is what he expected: the last remnants of the sleeping pills he was prescribed when he fought a two month battle with insomnia sometime last year. They had helped, allowing him some semblance of normal sleep but he had quickly grew tired of the pill-popping and into the medicine cabinet they went along with the other pill bottles for all the other ailments that plagued him. Now they were ready for usage again, only this time a much deeper sleep will be called for, a much deeper sleep from which all his hurt and pain will never be realized ever again by those around him and in particular, himself.

The expiration date on the front of the bottle almost stopped him. Almost. They had expired almost four months ago. Four month old sleeping pills wouldn’t do the trick, would they? Could they possibly be just as potent as they were when they first were manufactured? Better yet, do pills “get old?” How was he to know? All he wanted to do was end all the confusion and pain in his life, not worry about the sleeping pills he wanted to use to end his own life were expired or not. Can’t he even get this one thing right? Then the voice of insanity answered in an almost too calming voice; an answer so simple and elementary that at first he thought that it was wrong, but a split second later realized that the voice was all too right.

“Just take the whole bottle. That way, you cover all your bases.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention as he looked around to make sure no one else was in the narrow bathroom at the same time as he was. Of course there was no one there but if that was the case, where in the hell did that voice come from? Perhaps he has truly gone mad after all. He must be because no sane man would take his own life by swallowing twenty odd more-than-likely-expired sleeping pills. “If this is madness,” he thinks, staring in the mirror once more, “then I welcome it with open arms, warts and all.” The sound of the medicine bottle shaking its contents within brings his attention down to his right hand. That’s when he notices the slight shaking hand; the culprit of the interruption of his thoughts. He places his left hand over the right to calm the rattling of the pills and to open the bottle as well. As he aligns the safety arrows along the top and the actual bottle itself, twisting them in opposite directions, that voice comes back once again, only this time surprisingly calmer than previously.

“There you go. You’re almost home. Now, just cowboy up and finish the job!”

“Hey, I’m doing the best that I can,” He says out loud to nobody. “Don’t rush me!”

“Pussy ‘till the end.”

“I AM NOT A PUSSY!!!” and as quick as the words left his tongue, the bottle was on his mouth, forcing it to open wider, his neck craning back to accommodate the total contents with in. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that swallowing half a bottle of any pills could be so easily executed, but here he was, digesting 250 milligrams each of a sleeping aid without any problem whatsoever. Amazing what you can do when you set your mind to it he thinks as the last white and orange capsule slides down his throat. Dunking his head under the sink to retrieve a healthy gulp of water, the voice speaks in a tone of respect.

“Way to go, Buckaroo! I knew you had it in you the whole time! I’m proud of you! You’re all grown up now!”

“Yes, I’m a good Buckaroo and I AM all grown up now.” This he says to the reflection staring back at him, it too dripping water from its chin and with blood-shot eyes.

“Now, pour yourself a drink and lay down. You deserve it, Buckaroo.”

He leaves the bathroom in silence, heeding the words of the obviously much wiser voice within his head, heading to the kitchen where the scotch was kept in the small cabinet above the refrigerator. The Oban 20 year old single malt was only consumed on those rare occasions when he felt somewhat happy. He had had a couple of quaffs last New Year’s Eve with an ex of his, both of them watching Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Years on television while seated on the worn denim sofa they both had purchased together some years past. It was the last time they were as close as they broke up less than two months later, him not having a choice in the matter, she claiming that he wasn’t as affectionate as she’d like, in fact at times that he was down- right frigid. The only other times it was drank were when the occasional friend would stop by or if his football team (die hard Redskins fan) would win a playoff game. Outside of that, it was never even touched. Breaking tradition, today it will be drank out of sadness and despair, the remaining half bottle of the peaty liquid will do nicely as the last drinks of this life. He takes the scotch down from its dark home and closes the cabinet door. Next stop: the living room.

Less than thirty seconds later, he is sitting up on his couch but not before stopping by the DVD player on the other side of the room and putting in his favorite movie, West Side Story. His mother had introduced him to it back when he was eleven or twelve and he had fell in love with it after its first viewing. At the time, no movie he had ever seen came close to its realism or energy. All the dancing, the fights, the music… it had taken him by storm with its brilliance. By the age of fourteen, he knew every song by heart and could recite close to ninety percent of the dialogue word for word, right along with the movie playing before him. While the rest of his friends and schoolmates were rocking out to AC/DC and Foreigner, in the privacy of his home (when no one was around), he was recreating the high school gymnasium dance scene, step by step, envisioning himself as one of the Jets or Sharks, fighting to keep their turf safe from the other rival gang. Throughout his life whenever the problems of the world seemed overbearing or too much to handle, he would slip in WSS, taking a three hour hiatus from reality and getting lost in nostalgia. This was one of those times. With the single malt scotch an arm’s length away from him and the remote on his right thigh, he watches the opening credits of the movie displayed before him and like that, he is transformed back to the early 80’s, whistling the all too familiar Jet battle cry (tweet- tweet –TWEEEET!!!) in unison with the film.

For being naked for the past hour or so in his apartment, he is surprisingly not cold or hot. He is… just right. That’s the best way he can describe himself during the end of his life. Ironic, he muses just as Maria and Tony are performing their famous balcony scene while singing “Tonight, tonight”, one of the film’s classic moments in his opinion. In the end, it is the only time he has felt normal. That deserves a drink. And drink he does. Not only then but for almost the next hour, every five minutes a generous “sip” is taken by him until by the time the DVD is at the big rumble under the tunnel, the eighty proof liquor is depleted along with any reservations he may have had about staying here in this world.

“That’s right, Buckaroo. Down the hatch.”

“You still here,” he says aloud to the room, his speech slurred and eyes glassed over as the combination of the alcohol and the sleeping pills have finally began to do their job properly. “I thought you would have been gone long ago, friend.”

“I’m here to the end, Buddy-boy. Me, the Jets and the Sharks.”

He smiles at this while on the screen Tony is running through the streets and back alleys screaming for “Chino, come and take me too!” for all to hear.

“Watch your back, Tony, ma man. That Chino is one slick fucker,” but fucker now comes out sounding more like ‘fawka’ as his motor skills quickly wane from him with each passing minute. “A slick fawka jus lik dem Sharks.” A slight chuckle follows but is quickly cut off as the toxic substance combination knocks him out a second later. What brings him back to is the sound of the remote control which has fallen off his lap and with a loud clink!, hits the empty scotch bottle on the floor beneath him, briefly awakening him but he finds that he cannot move. The half-off, half-on on his back with his head laying on its left side facing in the direction of the television is the only position his body will allow itself. He tries again to will his body at least upright, this time with all the mental faculties at his disposal but still it’s a no go. Have…to…get…up… but he cannot even manage to wiggle a finger or toe because now his motor skills are all but gone.

As if this wasn’t frustrating enough, his bladder goes. Under normal circumstances, he could feel that all too familiar tickling and pressure from a desperate need of urinal release but by no means was this normal circumstance. He had no warning whatsoever. What starts as a trickle slowly rolling down his left thigh onto the hard-wood floor beneath him, in seconds is a full-blown golden waterfall, creating a sizeable puddle on the floor not to mention a humiliating blow to his ego. Even in the end, he thinks, I still have shame. This is his last cognate thought as the pills, alcohol, and finally his absent will to live finally overcome him. A single tear builds up in his right eye and releases itself down the side of his cheek just as Maria is mourning over Tony’s fatal gunshot wound by the hands of Chino (the fawker!) on the television. It is the last scene of the film and this is the last scene of his life. As the credits roll and the medley of the musicals songs play, his eyes roll back in his head and he closes his eyes for the last time.

He died the way he came into this world, angry, naked and alone.

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Lonely Man Chronicles

The Old Man in the Cafe

The years have not been kind to him. No, he has suffered mentally and physically more than most, wearing his hurt and pain on his face and shoulders like some mock badge of courage for all to see. Eyes stained red from stress and fatigue with a tell-tale scar above his right eye from a boating accident he was in when he was ten, he stares across the café at the others who are enjoying their coffee and company, totally oblivious to him. At his age, it no longer bothered him that he goes unnoticed; he’s used to that. Better to be not seen and heard then to be a nuisance or frowned down upon for being loud. He has learned this the hard way. In his younger years, he was prone to drinking and mischief, not caring about his actions or words and how they affected those around him. This is why he is alone now; having burned every bridge and crossing everyone he has come in contact with.

He had a woman, a good woman who loved him with all her heart. He had met her when he was twenty-five, she was twenty-one. He had worked in construction for a good part of his life, specializing mostly in carpentry. This is when he had met her. He wooed her, captivating her with his words, mesmerizing her with his love for her, amazing her with his intelligence. Thiers was a match made in heaven. If not for his wayward habits of drunkenness and womanizing, they might have had a chance. She left him after years of being deprived and mistreated. This has left him feeble both emotionally and mentally, and though he had many other women over the course of his lifetime, he never achieved the same level of love that he had with her. This is how love has left him.

Now lonely, abandoned and broken, he ponders the meaning of life over warm coffee and broken dreams….

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Word on the Street

 Brooklyn Hustlaz

To all my dealers in the ‘hood who carry stacks of cash

Keep moving your shit, safeguarding your stash

Trusting no bitches, taking no shorts

Beatin’ all your cases, bafflin’ the courts

Keep pumping that shit, you got a high demand

Addicts and dealers walking hand and hand

With pants off your ass, boxers on your waist

Makin’ those moves, stackin’ bread with haste

You run a tight crew, anarchy not tolerated

Popular in dark circles, your name often celebrated

Ruining lives, a nickel bag at a time

No regrets, no remorse. Let your fronts shine!

The night is yours, you’re its crowned prince

The corners belong to you. Your block has no defense

‘Cause you got that shit that makes them niggas itch

Make them scratch they necks, turn ‘em out like tricks

Make mommas sell diapers, take their welfare checks

Make ‘em spread their legs wide, make ‘em bob their necks

Keep ‘em on the streets sayin’ “Yeah, this that shit!”

While your paper stay long and your money stay thick

Fuck what they say, you gonna make out like the mob

This shits a bitch but somebody’s gotta do the job

With your Timbs laced up and your cap down tight

White tee, you’re complete. Bring on the night.

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I’m Still Here..

How I came to be alive for forty-two years on this earth is still and will always remain a mystery to me. Lord knows I should have been dead, imprisoned or shipped off to Siberia years ago but somehow, someway, I’m still here much to many people’s chagrin. I didn’t start off or intend to be a bad person. I really don’t think anyone envisions themselves a cancer on society when they are younger. You don’t wake up one morning and say, “Hey, today and for the rest of my life, I’m going to be an asshole!” It kind of just happens naturally. In my case, I was probably born this way.

So what did the man with nothing to lose do on his birthday, you ask? Did I go see strippers? Been there, done that. Did I go out and get plastered? Although the thought did cross my mind (you have no idea how hard it was to fight that voice), I did not. Oh, I must have had a party of some sorts at home, loud music and brazen women galore, right? Not even close. You know what I did? The most non-exciting thing one can do on one’s birthday: I stayed in my bed and watched movies back to back for two whole days. Yes, the person who once celebrated his birthday in a rehab facility with other fucked up people a little more than two years ago stayed home and entertained himself with Blue rays and DVD’s. Yes, some of them were illegally downloaded. Never said I was an angel, but I just had to see the latest Twilight flick, right? You understand.

I’m almost scared for the world as I have yet another year to terrorize and drive crazy those who are close to me. I’d keep my distance. I have cooties.

Still here (for how long I can’t say)

Gregory McCant

P.S. – To my 28 Facebook “friends” out of the 150 that I have who actually acknowledged my pathetic existence: thank you. To the others (and you know who you are), and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, without any malice, go fuck yourselves.

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