The East Side of it All. Joseph Dandurand

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СКАЧАТЬ fall from the sky where we all at one time began.

      The Silent Scream

      In the crooks and corners of the city you see humans bend over, or they are already bent. They walk that way down the alley and some look like snakes slithering in and out searching for a white powder or a piece of black tar. They search and search, come up for air then dive back down and bend their spines to the point of snapping. They do this all day until they fall over. If we were to look down from the sky we would see them left behind, fallen, as the snake that embodied them found them no longer worth eating.

      There are those who talk to themselves and we listen to these great forgotten prophets as they speak the truth about this and that and they sometimes scream to make sure we are listening. Then they stop for a drink and continue on as the people walk by and the prophets smile— as they know, yes, they know.

      We walk on to our lives and we move in and out from the hordes who live at each corner as some sleep and some trade and deal what they have. We ignore them and they ignore us as the streetlight changes from red to green and we cross over to another paradise and a new group and then they bend and preach and hustle. We ignore them as we become the snake and we slither back and forth as we avoid the dead and the dying as we search for a better place, as we search for a better meal.

      Violins

      As the city sleeps there are those who go up and down the alley picking up whatever may be laying on the ground that they toss into carts and all you hear are the squeaking wheels as each cart is pushed and pushed until it stops to pick up a pop can or beer can to toss into their pile of gold.

      They are usually half the man they used to be. Some are drunks and others addicts but they collect as if collecting for their choice of church— God welcomes them all though some gave up on God long ago.

      There are those who wear very little and there are those who are dressed for a cold winter but here it only rains and the carts cut through all the puddles and the half- a-man stops and picks up an old needle and checks to see if it has a drink of the black demon but it never does so he tosses it for the next half-a-man to pick up and repeat as the squeaking wheels begin to sound like violins of a pathetic symphony and the notes are unplugged in unison as the wheels turn and stop and repeat.

      We all wake up to the early ballad that is now played with the sounds of those who cherish a God as the city becomes alive from a long night and the song becomes even louder as the first bus comes around and the hiss of the brakes becomes the drumbeat and the song changes and becomes a song to God who stopped listening long ago.

      Wayfinding

      If I were to stop at every sign I was given like the sound of an eagle or the silence and flight of a young hawk or growling of a sasquatch or the jumping fish before my net or the way the river flows and the sight of an old crane as she snaps and kills a fish with her razor-sharp beak.

      If I could, I would turn this into good medicine for me and my family and we would be protected from all the hate and envy on this reservation but I can still hear the whispers from those who wait and wait and take and take and complain about those of us who’ve reset our lives in a completely different direction.

      If we all touched the sky and asked the questions we all wanted answered I would surely ask what it is like on the other side and would it be like this life but much better and much simpler.

      As we all await our final walk all we can do is listen and watch for the signs that will keep us grounded here and all I can do as the world spins around and around is watch for the signs that my life was always right and my children have been given enough teachings not to repeat what I’ve failed at and as the day begins, there are more signs: the call of the coyote, the shining star, all of this shown to me as if I knew what to do with it.

      Into the Centre

      One man is up before the west coast sunrise. He puts on his shoes and is out the door, walks onto the street and turns left or right as it still depends on which way his mind turns him. He begins to go straight for the wicked parts at the centre of this city and there he sees his brothers and sisters as they shake or are frozen in time. He greets them with a good morning brother or sister and they just stare; they either smile or just keep fading.

      One man arises at night and he is all by himself in his room and he puts on his shoes and is out the door and goes straight to the centre and there he gives out cigarettes to his brothers and sisters. Some say thank you and others cannot speak but he does not care. The night goes on until the west coast sunrise peeks out and the man goes back to his room to light a cigarette for himself, blows the smoke across his one-room paradise.

      One man is very young and he puts on his shoes as he goes out into the world. He steals what he can and trades his stolen goods for a small piece of heroin and he goes to any hidden place in any hidden alley. He pulls out his roll of tinfoil and heats his winnings. He injects himself and for a brief time he is still a young man but that soon disappears as the high is fading faster, so he walks back to his room and lays on his bed as a young man who has become old. And some day he will not put on his shoes but he will stay here, in his room, an old forgotten man faded away long before his time.

      The Shame of Man

      He is buried somewhere in a prison of fools. He gets his meals and a good night’s sleep but he will be gone forever and most of us do not care one way or the other but for our people— we are the ones who paid the price as our mothers and sisters disappeared on his pig farm a few miles upriver from where he had taken them. Now they are just a memory but we never forget— as we never forget.

      On any given night they say he would hunt like all predators downtown and he’d have his pick of the already lost and forgotten. He would pick his target and bring her back to the farm where he would keep her for a few days, feeding her drugs.

      Once the desire was too overwhelming he would attack and explode with his inner demons. He would choose life or death and in our case it was always death.

      With the plunge of the knife or the cold grasp of his filthy hands he would end them and bury them in the back.

      As the new day began, the pigs of the world would feast.

      If I could change time I would wait for the stinking pickup and that little man in his big boots to appear. I would follow him and as he picked up my sister, I would follow him and when he got home upriver, I would hop the fence and I would get to him before he could do her any harm and I would plunge a cold blade into his eye or I would wrap my hands around his neck and watch him slip away and then I would bury him in the back.

      My sister and I would return to the city to await the next predator and we would do the same.

      But that never happened and we still search and search for our sisters as they disappear and all I can do is stare at my hands as they strangle an imaginary evil who still to this day has a nice bed, a good meal, a lifetime of knowing he was more than a pig farmer.

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