I’ll never understand. Millions of logical, rational, well-educated men and women with high power jobs and multiple degrees, believe that every Sunday wine turns to blood and worship a God that was a man that rose from the dead as they chant incarnations with candles and incense.. Yet those very same people roll their eyes when you bring up yoga or chakras. Yoga, and chakras, just two examples of ancient “mystic” practices that scientific data has proven legitimate in multiple accredited studies by some of the top research schools in the nation. The names of those schools printed on many of the degrees that do little more than collect dust on the walls in their offices. I try not to look condescending as they tell me they are followers of science and not silly hippy woo-woo stuff. I don’t think I will ever understand how such educated people can be so unaware of their own contradictions, their own hypocrisy.  That isn’t to say that I don’t have my own contradictions and hypocrisy. I am nothing but contradictions if you ask me. We all have them, every last one of us. It just so happens that of this affliction, some of us are already aware.

I live in a movie; I have my whole life. No matter what I am doing, there are cameras there, invisible though they may be. Now I’ve never been paranoid about this. I have never considered there may be people watching me, or some big conspiracy to invade my privacy. I did used to be curious, but I was quite young when I realized it isn’t people watching me, nothing like that. It’s the entire universe tuned in to my every move. Creation itself is on the edge of its seat every morning wondering just what I’ll do next. In this I don’t feel alone. I think this is true for all of us. I just happen to be aware of it. Many call this awareness I have, this knowing of things a gift. In some ways perhaps it is. If I’m being honest though, which I have trouble being anything less, I don’t feel like it’s a gift most of the time. It’s often an uncomfortable burden I wish I could give back. Why must I know things I can't change? Why do I need to understand things that are so beyond my control? Well, that’s the kicker. The universe (or whatever you choose to call the great other that is not us) is not a fool. There is no reason to give all this insight to someone who can do nothing useful about it. The only logical and rational explanation given for that truth is this. I do have power. I do have the ability to use this information to make changes. They just may not be the changes I want to make. I can’t prevent a death, but I can with absolute certainty know what has become of the soul that has left, and comfort loved ones accordingly. I would be far less useful in these moments if I was guessing, hoping, or unsure. Doubt is not comforting. But knowing can be.

My life didn’t turn out with the white picket fence and blue-eyed husband that adored me I used to dream of as a little girl. Far from it. I am not here for comfort. I am here for purpose. A messenger from God. An ambassador for the universe. A translator of energy. I don’t fit well in this world. It’s far too harsh for my delicate constitution and sensitivities.  I manage despite it all. My trials seem extreme, unreal and sometimes comical to some. When I say it’s not easy to be me, they don’t realize how deep the sentiment goes. I never dreamed as a child that this would be my life. As I spent countless hours collecting rocks and creating alters in the fields next to my house or trying various rituals and sequences that I would make up trying to unlock some great power I felt I had within. I thought by now I would have figured it all out. At 8 years old I thought I was only moments away from discovering the key that would unlock it all for me. Now here I sit at 45 in a cheap hotel room, homeless and alone after pouring everything in me into everyone and everything I believed worthy and good. Was I wrong? Was it all some grand delusion or mental illness that took me down this path. Maybe by the world's standards it is. The world isn’t in charge though, the understanding of human minds is faulty and limited. If I were to judge my life and my success by worldly measures, I would be a complete failure. Lucky for me, I know better.  That particular knowledge is most certainly a gift.

You truly never know how sick you've become until you've been cured. The complications behind the interludes and brumes of introspection beseech order, entwined in a sense of desire and purpose. If you can find that within yourself - great. Not many do. But when you can find that bliss and structure within another, it sets an alchemical reaction for both of you to reach for the stars, to catch each other when the other floats in the nebula of their uncertainty. You make it certain in their head that everything will be alright, and that all it takes is one step forward to be greater than the you that took the last.

From Nothing to Something

In the grand office of the mafia boss, where power and luxury were reflected, a solid wooden desk took center stage. This heavy, handcrafted piece stood out with its elegant carvings, each telling a story of the owner’s power and influence. The desk, a witness to secret deals and fateful decisions, was now adorned with gleaming crystal glasses and bottles of expensive whiskey, whose golden elixir promised forgetfulness and pleasure. The two most trusted, paid girls, beautiful and semi-nude, sat next to the boss with perfect grace that highlighted their danger and allure. Their skin slightly glistened under the warm office light, and their exquisite figures were clad in thin garments that revealed more than they concealed. Their bold and exciting smiles were directed at anyone daring enough to glance their way, promising unforgettable moments for those brave enough to come closer. The mafia boss, comfortably seated behind the desk, exuded certainty and decisiveness as he poured himself a glass of the expensive whiskey. He laughed mockingly at his son before lifting the crystal glass—a gift from the woman who changed the game. He then said, “The difference between a paid girl and a whore is that to sleep with one of my girls, you need to pay from a hundred to two hundred euros per hour, while the whore will lie with you for free.” Mario always remembered her, the woman who once told him those words. 14 The son sat across from his father, his eyes reflecting a complex inner world, a struggle between the desire to stand out and the weight of his father’s legacy. Although his father’s words were sharp, he could not help but admire the strength and confidence with which everything was spoken. The mystical woman had become a legend in their circles, a story told with respect and admiration. She was a testament that even the most hardened souls could be changed, that new paths could be found even when everything seemed predetermined. The woman who changed the rules of the game! But to understand the story of Ivona, we must go far back in time, to her childhood years, when she first encountered the cruelty of fate. The summer day in the village was filled with a unique charm. The sun climbed high in the sky, pouring light and warmth over the golden fields surrounding the village. Preparations for the big village festival were in full swing, with life there playing out its daily rhythm with accelerated yet exciting energy. People were busy with the preparations—lambs bleated in every yard, decorations adorned the streets, and the aromas of freshly prepared traditional dishes wafted through the air, awakening everyone’s appetites. The air vibrated with anticipation and excitement for the upcoming events. Ivona, a young girl with straight black hair and eyes full of enthusiasm, was ready for school. Her parents, ordinary workers with big hearts, sent her off with love and good wishes. Her small body carried the dream of a better future, embracing the joy of the festival. At school, the hours flowed easily, smoothly transitioning into one another until the big break arrived—the moment everyone eagerly awaited. The corridors immediately filled with 15 voices and laughter, and the students dispersed in different directions, filled with joy for the forthcoming break. Ivona leaned on the railing of the second floor, watching her friends climb the stairs. Twelve-year-old Ivona was fully immersed in her dreams and the anticipation of the afternoon plans with her friends, engulfed by the warmth and excitement of the upcoming festival. Casually leaning against the cold railing, she watched as her classmates disappeared one by one into the school corridors, carrying with them the promise of unforgettable moments after the last bell. Her imagination painted pictures of laughter, games, and carefree moments to share, momentarily forgetting school duties and homework. This day was special— not only because it marked the beginning of the long-awaited spring holidays but also because it promised new adventures and memories to be cherished forever. In Ivona’s heart, the fire of excitement and the spark of childlike joy blazed as she envisioned all the outdoor games, jokes and secrets they would share under the golden rays of the spring sun. Her thoughts were so vivid she could almost hear her friends’ laughter and feel the touch of the winds carrying the scent of blooming flowers and the fresh greenery of the park where they planned to spend the afternoon. However, this moment of carefree bliss was interrupted by an unexpected reality. As if pulled from her sweet reverie, Ivona realized how quickly everything could change. While deep in her world of dreams, she failed to notice two classmates approaching her with quick, thoughtless steps. Their unexpected shove broke the magical thread of her thoughts, snapping her back to the harsh reality of the school corridors. Two boys, almost unconsciously and senselessly in their actions, pushed Ivona. In the moment of her fall, time seemed to 16 freeze, and the action unfolded slowly, like a scene from a film. Ivona plunged into the abyss of her own helplessness and fell to the floor with a crash that echoed in everyone’s ears. Shock and horror quickly overtook students and teachers alike. Their faces, gripped by anxiety and uncertainty, gathered around Ivona’s lifeless body. Her fall turned a carefree school day into a grim moment that would leave a deep imprint on the consciousness of everyone who witnessed the incident. This incident was the beginning of a series of events that would forever change Ivona’s life, ushering her into a world filled with uncertainty, dangers, and challenges. The moment Ivona fell from the second floor of the school building, action throughout the school froze. The crossed glances of students and teachers conveyed the same grief and horror. Ivona, the girl who was just minutes ago full of energy and joy, now lay motionless as if her life had paused in mid-air along with her fall. Her body, with broken bones and unconscious, became an object of compassion and helplessness for everyone around. The usually composed teachers could no longer hide their emotions. Their tears, mixed with the shock of what had happened, fell down their cheeks as they tried to comfort the children and maintain order amidst the chaos that had erupted. Students who witnessed the fall stood frozen in place, horrified by the sudden tragedy. The small world of school life, usually filled with carefree play, suddenly collided with the harsh realities of life. At that moment, the school was no longer just a place for learning and fun but the scene of one of the toughest moments in Ivona’s and her classmates’ lives. As they waited for emergency medical help to arrive, teachers and students stood helplessly around Ivona, who 17 symbolized their shared vulnerability and the human struggle for survival. The air was thick with tension and helplessness as everyone prayed for her survival. This day, meant to be a celebration of joy and community, turned into a tragedy that would subsequently leave its mark on the hearts and memories of everyone in the village. Ivona’s life and that of her family were overturned in a single, fatal moment. Her mother’s tears wet the hospital floor as the sun reflected in her frightened eyes, filled with a plea for mercy. Her father, a man with rough, work-hardened hands and a heart full of toil and love, stood by the hospital bed, holding his daughter’s motionless hand. One of the strongest moments in the life of this humble man turned into a prayer, spoken with all the weight and sincerity of a father. “Lord, I am a simple man, I work with my hands and live with my heart,” he began, his voice trembling with anxiety and hope. “But today I ask you, not for me, but for my daughter, Ivona. She is still so young, with so many dreams and desires. Don’t take away her chance to realize them. She is my everything, the light of my life. Please, Lord, give her strength, give her the chance to overcome this trial. Let this darkness that has engulfed her be dispersed and let her come out of it stronger and more determined.” His tears flowed down his cheeks, drops of pain and helplessness that merged with the hope for a miracle. “You know I have always believed in your mercy and justice. Please, look upon my daughter with the same mercy. Give her a chance to live, to fight, to show the world her strength. She can be an example to all that even in the toughest moments, the light of hope does not extinguish.” In that moment, when her father spoke these words with all 18 his soul, a quiet strength crept into the hospital room. Ivona, still unconscious, was surrounded by the love and hope of her parents—two powerful forces that believed she would rise again and walk the path of life with new purpose and strength. In the hospital room, painted in pastel shades of hope and consolation, little Ivona lay motionless in the bed, submerged in unconsciousness. Around her, a life support machine beat rhythmically, like a distant lighthouse in the fog, marking the thin line between life and death. Her small body was wrapped in clean, white sheets that seemed too large for her, as if shielding her from the world waiting outside. By her daughter’s hospital bed, Ivona’s mother sat in one of the two modest chairs, enveloped in a heavy silence. Her face bore the marks of worry and fatigue, echoes of the long, sleepless hours of waiting. In her hands, she held a pale pink shawl she was knitting in those rare moments when her anxiety allowed her to focus on something other than her daughter. The shawl was both a way to fill the time and a prayer, woven with wishes for a better life for her daughter. Beside her, Ivona’s father sat silently, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on his daughter’s face. In his hands, he held a rosary with a cross, its beads worn from being passed through fingers repeatedly. Each bead, polished by constant touch, carried the weight of a prayer, and the cross at the end symbolized hope and devotion. This rosary was more than just an object; it was a bridge between the man and his faith, a tool for meditation and solace in moments of worry and despair. With the rosary clutched in his hands, the father whispered prayers with tear-filled eyes, each whisper a sincere plea for his daughter’s healing. He was not merely reciting words; each prayer was intertwined with personal hopes, expressions of gratitude, and requests for strength. The cool cross, chilled by the 19 hospital air, became a source of comfort under his fingers, reminding him of the greater power that he believed could bring a miracle for Ivona. Every time his thoughts threatened to drown in a sea of despair, the rosary served as an anchor, pulling him back to the shores of hope. This continuous ritual of prayer and meditation provided a balance between the inner storm of his emotions and the peace he sought in his faith. The walls of the room were decorated with children’s drawings and pictures of cartoon characters, an attempt to bring joy and color into the sterile environment. A window let in a weak light, highlighting the dust particles in the air, dancing like stars in the beams. Despite efforts to create a cozy atmosphere, the hospital room could not hide its primary function—a place for battling illness. The medical devices sustaining Ivona’s life added a constant, monotonous sound that blended with the silence, only interrupted by the rare footsteps and whispers of the medical staff outside. After a year woven with countless medical procedures, rehabilitation, and internal battles, Ivona managed to fully recover from the trials life had presented her. Although her left arm could not fully extend, this minor limitation hardly overshadowed the joy of her return to a full life. This aspect of her recovery became not so much a reminder of weakness as a symbol of the challenges she had overcome and the strength she found in herself despite everything. On her path to recovery, Ivona turned the limited strength in her left arm into a source of inspiration. She learned to handle everyday tasks in new, innovative ways, developing skills that many with full physical ability might find challenging. Every activity requiring the use of her hands became for her not just a task, but a little journey of discovery and adaptation. 20 Her family and friends witnessed her incredible determination and positive attitude. Rather than focusing on her limitations, Ivona used their strength to show the world that true power comes not from physical abilities but from the spirit and will to move forward. This recovery was not only a personal victory for Ivona but also a lesson for everyone around her about the value of perseverance and faith. Her left hand, which could not fully open, became a symbol of her victory over circumstances, a reminder that true strength is in the soul, not in physical limitations. Ivona’s life continued with new strength and purpose. She not only returned to her daily life but also embarked on a path with greater determination and a desire to inspire others. With each passing day, she proved that despite physical limitations, a person’s spirit can remain unshakeable and overcome any challenge with dignity and courage. When the hospital became just a memory, Ivona, along with her mother and father, moved to the capital. They inhabited a stylish apartment in a spacious estate where her parents worked and maintained. The parents worked together as there was no difficulty they could not handle. In Ivona’s chest lived an unquenchable fire of dreams and hopes, which made her look at the world around her with the eyes of boundless optimism. Although fate had placed her in two modest rooms of the majestic estate where her mother and father worked tirelessly, she experienced true joy from every moment spent there. Ivona did not see the walls of her modest home as a limitation but as a starting point on her path to future success. Her dreams for the future were bright and lively—one day she would become a businesswoman, a mistress of an estate similar to the one she now called her home from a modest 21 distance. Ivona believed that with the strength of will and persistent work, every dream could become a reality.

Decorated in velvet with heels too tight, I crouch over a curb maintaining my balance as the rotting garbage provokes me to vomit. My stomach is in bundles, and my eyes begin to water. Not daring to ruin the hours it took to paint my face I raise my nose to the stars, hoping the wind will ease the nerves. Minutes away from my current phobia, my body begins to hum in terror. Unwinding my back I stand to face the bar lights and the patrons milling around lingering in its hue. Who said this was truly impossible?

Before my brain can process the dumpsters are long gone, the music hits and my hands move on their own. Throwing open the curtain to a roar of cheers, the creature who lives inside runs to the light. How did her and I become one?

Growing up shy, I was usually acquainted with the silence. I often chose it, demanding to only be still, refusing to speak. I never truly understood the power of voice, and decided that I deserved to hangout with the shadows. My family often would tell me I did not belong with them. Not from a malicious intent but truly from genuine laughter and observation. The fed-ex baby they'd howl at me during long nights of family mischief and home cooked meals.

It soon became my mission to understand why I felt so far away from my family. Physically we were always close. My siblings and I lingering in the hallways and teasing each other about our newest clothes, we always knew how to share the room.

We never knew how to fill it though. Long pauses and extended breaths, the truth was not revealed often, if ever at all. I could feel the hesitation when each moment came, but all we knew was strength and anger. The shadows held my secrets for me, but I didn't realize at the time they can't always be there. As time continued to pass and I grew older, the shadows nuzzled into my mind, allowing me to find comfort with them there. They pushed me to speak, allowing me to be heard. It was a long journey before they realized how to roar.

Enslaved like everyone,

Though not all are locked in prisons,

Before I understood that I was alive, I was ordered to die. Not because of my weakness - quite the contrary - I was strong enough to pass through the gates of existence. Honestly, I don’t know how much of it was my decision. I don’t know to what extent my mother chose me, my father pulled me from death, or how much I could have felt nothing at all.

I do know, however, that the world wanted me to experience. I have no idea whether as the living or the dead, because how am I supposed to know this isn’t all just hell? How can I be certain that I am not already living in the sanctity they promise I’ll experience after death?

I have already discovered my form, I know I am human, for I do not shy away from animal behavior. I am aware of the amount of evil in the world, but I also see the good within it. In a way, human nature encompasses all animalistic behaviors, but doesn’t that define the human in me?

Desires, lusts, cruelties that I could succumb to. I consciously reject them all! I’m not trying to be anyone anymore - I’ve stopped pretending. I can openly say that I’ve freed myself from the closed cage. A cage made from the roots of a tree that I myself planted. A dungeon in a mine that I dug with my own hands. A slavery in which I willingly enslaved myself. A powerlessness that I have overcome.

Yes - I am a product of transformation. Perhaps like a meaningless hormone, enzyme, or simple peptide. Like something that only an overwhelming quantity changes in structure, but nonetheless, I am a product of my own transformation.

How many are there like me, and how many aim to be in my place? I have already arrived here! I am sowing my own fields before I learn to sow depravity. I try to exist as well as the human in me allows.

Chapter One: The Quiet Resolve

The world doesn't stop spinning just because one life hits pause. I learned that young. There was no dramatic moment that changed everything in an instant. My story wasn’t written in bold strokes or defined by a single event, but in the quiet persistence of each day, the subtle acts of holding on when it felt like letting go would be easier.

I was always the one in the background, observing, analyzing, trying to make sense of it all. I was raised in a place where the horizon stretched wide, but the possibilities often felt narrow. I was no stranger to struggle, and my path was anything but straightforward. But if there was one thing I learned early on, it was how to keep going, even when the ground beneath my feet seemed ready to give way.

Motherhood arrived like a tidal wave, changing the landscape of my world forever. I knew it was coming, yet nothing could truly prepare me for the moment I held my child in my arms for the first time. It was like feeling the weight of the entire universe and the lightness of pure love, all at once. In that instant, I made a silent vow to be everything she needed, even if I wasn’t sure how. There was no manual for this, no guide to navigating the endless nights and uncertain days. I had to figure it out one step at a time, learning to be strong not just for myself, but for the tiny life that depended on me.

The world shifted again when everything outside came to a halt. What was supposed to be a time of settling into a new chapter became a test of endurance. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the struggle to keep afloat felt more like a constant fight against drowning. Eviction notices, uncertainty, and isolation became regular visitors. There were times when I looked around at the four walls that confined us and wondered if things would ever change. But then, I would see the small, innocent face looking up at me, trusting me to make things right. It was in her laughter, her tiny hands reaching out, that I found the strength to push on.

The story wasn’t one of instant transformation or sudden breakthroughs. It was about finding the will to face another day, about seeking light in the darkest moments. Each day was a battle against the quiet weight of despair that threatened to settle in. There were no grand epiphanies, just a steady resolve to keep going, even when the way forward was shrouded in uncertainty.

I wish I could say there was a single turning point, a moment when everything became clear. But the truth is, I had to learn to navigate life through trial and error. I took missteps, stumbled, and found myself lost more times than I could count. But in those moments, I discovered a different kind of strength—one that didn’t need to be loud or obvious, one that thrived in the quiet persistence of everyday resilience.

As I sit here now, I realize this journey isn’t about perfection or triumph. It’s about the choice to rise each day, to face the world with a kind of stubborn grace. And as for Chapter Two? It’s a story still in the making, one where the real struggles—and the real victories—are yet to unfold.

East Chase Street ca. 1944

1. After dark,

passing cars spread white sheets of light

on the ceiling of the 2nd floor front bedroom.

How comfy to know I’m put to bed in the room

where my grandmother will soon join me. Plus

I can tell from the headlights that the machinery

of Baltimore keeps going without me doing a thing.

2. Jack Flood’s place

was what my scary one-eyed step grandfather

called the derelict auto repair shop rotting and rusting

across the street. “He used to keep his women

up on the 2nd floor.“ “Fallen women,” Grandmother

whispered. I pictured women in denim overalls

who had somehow been injured in the War Effort

making the fenders and radiator grills that still spilled

onto the sidewalk. The iron sign said AUTOREPA.

I knew it meant AUTOREPAIRS but I still thought

Autorepa would be a swell name for a make of tractor

along with the John Deeres, International Harvesters,

and Cat Diesels pictured in my step-grandfather’s

Camels- yellowed copies of The Farm Journal..

3. The Red Cross Volunteer place

was three or four houses farther down Chase Street.

Each house we passed had a Gold Star in its bay window.

My grandmother and I walked there every morning.

I forget what she did. What I did was so important

the Red Cross ladies made me a kid-size Red Cross cap

and gave me a big magnet for picking up Invisible Hairpins.

Ladies went to the Red Cross place to get their hair done--

permed or blued.. It was also Miss Viola’s Beauty Parlor.

4. Miss Alma

lived on the third floor of the house on Chase Street.

She was one of my grandmother’s church ladies.

My mother would drop me off at my grandmother’s house

every morning before going to School 49 to teach English

to the Accelerated Middle School boys and girls.

Miss Alma was very tall and slim, with black hair slicked

into a bun. In her long black dress she would float

without making a sound down the stairs to the second floor,

to the first floor, down the hall to the front door, out onto

the fancy tiled vestibule, down the marble steps, out

into her world, whatever that was. I never saw her return.

When my mother was in her nineties, her heart doctored

by one of her girls from School 49, I mentioned

Miss Alma to her, thus adding to Mother’s theory

that I was crazy and a liar. Uncle John, my mother’s

much younger step-brother, remembered Miss Alma

and even her last name: Sinclair. Miss Alma Sinclair.

5. The marble steps

to the huge old brownstones on East Chase Street

were not like the ones you see in pictures of the city.

Housewives on Chase Street hired an old lady

with a scrub bush and bucket to do the steps each month.

’Common,” my mother called people who sat on the steps

on summer nights--part of a phrase ending “…as dirt.”

My grandmother even said the family on the steps

a few doors away was Common. But it was common,

to sit on the steps as the July sun moved west all the way

to Howard Street. The marble was gritty from coal dust

and the dirt of the Elevated stop a few blocks over

but cool, for my grandmother and step-grandfather

and especially to me in my shorts. All of us fanned

ourselves with church fans, cardboard pictures on sticks,

6. The castle

you could see from the Chase Street front steps

turned orangey-pink in the summer sunset.

It had towers and turrets and a scalloped roofline.

I knew it was really the Jail, but I wished

people would stop telling me so. Rapunzel herself

might let down her hair from one of the windows.

7. The Funeral Parlor

was a brownstone mansion my mother and I passed

as we headed down to my grandmother’s house. It had

an imposing stone arch over a yard full of black cars.

“Limousines,” my mother said, “and hearses for coffins.

“t’s The William Cook Funeral Home. Think of those

Gold Stars you see on Biddle Street, one per lost son.”

Later in junior high school we sang a song that went

When you die better try William Cook’s.

It’s the best undertaker in the books.

Its coffins are much cheaper

and they’ll bury you much deeper

When you die better try William Cook’s.

We sang it to the tune of a well-known commercial:

When you buy better try Hochschild Kohn

It’s the store Baltimore calls its own. . . .

A few years later I was a very reluctant debutante.

My date for some big party stopped at William Cook’s

to pick up two debutante-boys’ dates. I was shocked

to realize it was the Cook sisters’ family home. They

wore fabulous dresses pouffed out over huge hoops.

Bridal Hoops, that what whose Gone with the Wind

hoops were called. They hiked up and out in front

in the car. They’d have been just right for a black limo.

- - -

8. Street smarts and my life in crime

My parents felt I should get to know my way

around downtown. “Walk west (where the sun sets)

Walk up a block or two. You’ll find Biddle Street

and Preston Street.” I figured that Preston Street

was named after my father, Robert Preston Harriss.

But Biddle? Was that some kind of stupid baby talk?

Farther north was a Read’s Drugstore and a Five & Ten.

Both carried paperback books with guns and bosoms

on their covers. I would walk there by myself and

read those books till I could see it was almost dusk then

I’d take home with me whichever one I was reading.

Nobody ever caught me. I always got home on time.

9. Little Mysteries

that I used to ask my grandmother about included odd items

I’d see in McCrorie’s so-called NOTIONS DEPARTMENT

like the long skin-colored balloons at one of the counters.

She told me that they were to protect the hardworking fingers

of people who sewed. She didn’t seem to hear me when

I wanted to know why she never wore them, even though

she made all my clothes and bled on some of them.

10. Coal Dust

covered just about everything on Chase Street.

Grandmother’s house had brown velvet portieres

and brown upholstery with was a layer of black dust

on top of it all, even her windowsill African Violets.

I liked to sit on the dusty cellar steps to watch her

go down there in a bathrobe and my step grandfather’s

way too big bedroom slippers to shovel the day’s coal

into the furnace. Her ancient Bible Story Book

had a wonderful scary illustration of wicked people

shoveling babies into Moloch’s Fiery Furnace.

Grandmother was only keeping the house warm.

I understood that the Bible Story Book was just

what it said it was, a bunch of tall tales. Stories.

11. Uncle John’s furlough

brought Uncle John home on a short leave.

He stayed in the way-back second floor bedroom

on Chase Street. Often he and his fiancée Jane

would nap in his room. “So sweet,” my grandmother

would whisper to me in the hall. “They love each other.

And the door’s open.” They married when he came

home for good. “John and Jane.” Cute as a kiddie book..

12. My Criminal Life

continued. After the War ended Uncle John came back

to his home on Chase Street. If I happened to be there

he’d take me for a ride in the family’s old DeSoto.

At first I’d merely sit on his lap and shift the gears.

He did the pedals and the steering. When I turned ten

he let me drive on my own around the farm his one-eyed

father owned. Uncle John smoked Luckies in the passenger’s seat

13. Lessons I learned

a few years later when my Ps asked me if those boys

I ran around with drank: NOOOO I howled

thus assuring Mother and Father that they drank like fish.

The Boys’ Latin School where my drinking buddies

from Bolton Hill went had a fraternity called Gamma

Beta supposedly standing for God and Brotherhood

but really for Gin Belt. That was the semi-official

name of the boys’ prestigious neighborhood near

Chase Street. My Ps seemed rather relieved to learn

I could drive. “Grab their car keys if they’re drunk.”

14. I celebrate Memorial Day

thinking about Chase Street. Gold Stars, Red Cross. dust..

All over Baltimore celebrants are driving drunk. Thanks

to my family and especially Uncle John I’m alive. Still.

***

He was a real kind kid

Never owned a gun

His momma didn't know what she did

Growin' up he never had no fun

His daddy smoked pot by the lid

Then shined like a settin' sun

Along the way he learned to place a bid

And not stop 'til the dealin' was done

A car hit him...away it went on to skid

The boy lived a life on the run

Quick to make a stranger smile

He spoke with a stutter

The boy liked that punk rock style

He begged for his bread and butter

Insanity could've been the case to file

He was a stone cold cutter

His tongue was slick and vile

In your face he loved to sputter

Shot dead...the case never went to trial

Cuz the boy was from the gutter

There was a shine in the way he smiled

While he stayed in his lane

After the streets his heart was styled

He loved goin' against the grain

Traumatized since a child

With no end to his pain

Cards against him stacked and piled

A needle blew his heart and his brain

The boy was born to be wild

He was most definatley insane

He did some bad

He did some good

What made him glad

Was doin' what he should

To break free from the fad

On which all his morals stood

A man puttin' a gun to his dome made him mad

His last words "Wish you would"

His death got folks cryin' and feelin' sad

The boy was from deep in the hood

We come undone

Like a dangling thread

I’m picking apart

Every word that you’ve said

I'll call it an art

I’ve made my bed

I gave up my heart

While losing my head

It’s you-you-you

Every thought you

I’m lost inside

The high tides

Of your eyes

Those blue lies

Unspool

But he was never mine

I have no right to hold

His picture in my mind

It’s already bought and sold

By a girl out on his wire

Who doesn’t even know

How he likes to play with fire

Or the promises he told

To a naïve girl in love

Who’s left to fall alone

Suffering in silence

That’s all she’s ever known

While he builds his house of lies

She’ll pick him clean off her bones

And force herself to let him go

Letters wrote

That hide in a drawer

High stake keepsakes

Forever yours

The signed proof of his love

Tucked away, it’s her cure

The words he won’t say

Dipped in ink make her sure

She writes,

He was never mine

These words remain untrue

Cause He could never find

The strength to see it through

"I’ll leave her" he would swear

Something he would never do

That man never played fair

Had his cake to eat it too

Fool, why romanticize

An affair that left you cold

From the winter in his eyes

And the lies so easy-told?

Yours forever ends today

For the sake of my lost soul

I’ll find a way to let you go