"I
believe I can fly! I believe I can touch the sky…" the gay
sings as he takes off from the top of a snow-covered mountain with
winding gold paths. The cool, refreshing breeze hits him in his
face.
"
Wow! This is great! The colors! I'm in heaven! No problems! No
worries! Just freedom!" he yells taking in the cool mountain
air. His lungs expand. Sensations of lightness flow through his
body. Wings sprout out from his back and he jumps off the
mountaintop and takes off flying. Soaring above the clouds, he
starts to have difficulties breathing. He flies back down to the
mountain landing in the snow. He can't breathe! He struggles and
gasps for air, but nothing reaches his lungs. Slowly, his mind
shifts from dream to reality. There is a pop. The twilight glow of
the cemetery with the full moon shining brightly overhead comes
into his view.
The
gay is back on the white, flat marble mausoleum with gold Chinese
writings--his mountain. Frustrated, the gay takes the plastic bag
away from his nose and looks at it. It has hardened. The golden
brown glue that 20 minutes ago was a liquid is now a hard
yellowish clump. Desperate, the gay attempts to make the trip last
by chewing on the plastic bag. Bit by bit, he tries to chew out
the last remaining vapors that would carry him back to heaven,
away from his problems, away from his worries. Nothing happens.
It’s useless. He tosses the bag to the side and draws his knees
up close to his chest. Rocking back and forth on his haunches,
tears begin to flow. He reaches into his back pocket and takes out
a small mirror and stares into it.
"What
are you looking at?" he says, tears streaming down his face.
"You. You're so ugly," says the voice. "Every time I
see you, I see a monster, an atrocity."
"You're right, I am a monster. People think I'm a freak. I
can't help who I am."
"Who are you?" asks the voice.
"I'm a girl. No, I'm a boy. No, I'm a girl in a boy's
body."
"You could have fooled me," says the voice. You look
like a girl. All of the boys think so."
"Yeah, but they don't know really. That's why they hate me. I
fool them and they don't like it," the gay says sniffing.
"They think you're a girl?" says the voice.
"What do you mean think? I am a girl," he says fixing
his disheveled hair and wiping away the black smudges from under
his eyes.
"Are you really a girl? says the voice.
"Shut
up. I hate you!" the gay says to his reflection, shoving the
mirror back into his sack. He takes a deep breath and stretches
his hands out in front of him. He stares at them, contemplating
the thick protruding veins, the knobby knuckles and his long
fingernails covered in red chipped fingernail polish.
"Monster
hands," he mutters to himself. His hands shake. A surge of
fear sweeps through his body. He glances around nervously, looking
out at the rest of the cemetery.
"Nobody's
out there," says the voice. "You're safe in here. I'll
protect you from them."
Reassured,
the gay stands up on the tomb stone and shouts out.
"Bet
you won't come in here you cowards! Afraid of ghosts are you?
Let's see whose the gay now! Let's see you come in here with your
threats!"
"Keep it down. They may hear you," says the voice.
"Who may hear me? Everybody in here is dead, including
them," he says waving his arm over the many children sprawled
motionless on top of the raised mausoleums. A few are squatting,
holding bags of glue tightly under their noses.
"They don't care. They're too high tripping on the moon to
care about anything," says the gay. He sits down and reaches
into his sack to retrieve the mirror again. He looks at his
reflection.
"Do you think they're happy here?" says the voice.
"As long as they got their rugby, they're happy and feel
safe. They're in heaven, where nobody judges or blames them.
They're like me, lonely and in need of a place to be protected
from threats, violence and indifference. They don't care. Nobody
cares. Nobody dares to come in here. It's too spooky and they're
all cowards."
"Who?"
"Them."
"Do you know any of them?"
"What do you mean by know? says the gay.
"You know, know?"
"You
think just because I'm gay you can say and do anything you want to
me? You have no respect! I have done nothing to nobody, except to
be me! Me! Why can't people just accept that? God made me too!”
"Yeah,
but you're still a freak." says the voice.
"Shut
up!" the gay yells, spitting on the mirror. "Shut up!
They abused and maltreated me. They told me it was love when they
touched me. I was only eight years old. What was I supposed to do?
They hurt me. How could I fight back? I was so young. They
threatened to kill me."
"You
did it for so long and never told anybody? You have shamed your
family. You're disgusting!" says the voice.
"No, please don't. Please don't," he says crying on the
tombstone. "I didn't ask to be like this."
"You ran away and gave yourself to more men. You liked
it."
"They loved me!"
"Hey Joe, you want a go? A real live boy-girl for you
pleasure," the voice taunts. "They loved you?"
"Stop it! They loved me for who I am. I gave love and they
returned it. But it wasn't the kind of love I was looking
for."
"What kind of love were you looking for?" asked the
voice.
With
a deep sigh, the gay searches around in his sack for his lipstick
. "Wait," he says taking out a tube of lipstick and
smoothing it over his lips.
The
gay sighs and says, "I was looking for the kind of love a
mother gives to a child. I was looking for an innocent warm love.
An unconditional love. The only love I ever got was pain. I can
really give love, if they just give me a chance."
"That's
sweet, but you have no more chances. Remember what happened to
your friend? Remember what they did to him? You can't go back out
there. You may as well be dead," says the voice.
"I
may as well be dead," the gay repeats. He removes an eyebrow
pencil from his sack and starts to line in his eyebrows.
"Nobody will miss me. They tell me it is all of my fault.
They tell me I am confused and promiscuous. They tell me that I
influence others to be like me."
"What
are you going to do now?" says the voice.
The
gay holds the mirror between his legs while he powders his face.
He puts the compact away and takes the mirror into his hands
again.
"What
should I do now?" the gay says to his reflection biting his
nails.
The
voice whispers, "Join your friend. Go to him. It's for the
better."
The
gay turns the mirror over and over in contemplation. Tears stream
down his face streaking his make-up. He holds the mirror up again.
The bright moon reflects in the glass. The gay looks into the
mirror again and he sees his friend's face.
"Come
with me," his friend says smiling. "Come with me."
The
gay inhales deeply and runs the sharp edge of the mirror across
each wrist. The gashes are deep and blood begins to seep. A sharp
pain rises. Frantically, the gay searches around for an empty
plastic bag. He finds one and shakes it off, leaving a sprinkle of
blood over the white mausoleum. He gets up and nudges a sniffing
kid tripping on the moon. The boy turns to him with glittery eyes.
Without removing his plastic bag from his nose, the boy pours the
golden brown glue into the gay's plastic bag. Greedily, he inhales
the volatile fumes. Almost in an instant, he is transported back
to his snow-covered mountain with gold winding paths. Magically,
he sprouts wings, leaves his body and flies off into the clouds
beyond the rainbow. Problems forgotten. He's in heaven. He's free
again.
Intact
My
brain was intact
But that was way back when
I can't even remember when it began
It
used to be not long ago,
but I lost my sense of time
My brain's turned to play-do
so your guess is as good as mine
It
used to be that I think that I was
But I can't remember because
Something's happened and I don't know what
Things just seem so cluttered up
When
I come down
Life's a big mess
A lot of confusion
and unpleasant violence
But
a long sniff from the glue in the bottle
To fry up my mind
To be a throttle
I
don't care
'Cause anywhere is better than here.
What's a little brain loss
If you can be freer?
To forget about problems
No cares in the world
It's all worth the trip and the lasting twirls
The after effects of a deep fried brain
May not be a pretty sight
But I'll do it again and again
'Till
I achieve what I think is glory and prescience
Brain dead and fully unconscious
That's my friend.
MDR 1/96
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