Good Or Bad, I Was One Of The Ones

I saw you in a dream of mine.
This was real and not long ago.
Yet, this was only a dream so then again, I suppose none of this was real, —unless it was.
Or maybe this is that thing we call memory that bubbles to the surface. Or wait, maybe this goes deeper to a trigger or a receptor in the brain. Maybe something was touched or an end-switch was enabled to recreate a memory in a dream.
Or . . .
Maybe this is what I call my subconscious and so, perhaps something else is overlapping in my life to which, yes. I think I need to pay attention for a while.

I have no fears about the temptations of old because I have learned how to speak their language.
But this is why the devils know to be tricky, so, they change their dialect to keep from being spotted.
This is how the demons camouflage themselves and how the serpent tricked a couple of knuckleheads in the Garden of Eden.
It’s like that time I got beat on B19th Street.
I followed the wrong snake and but the wring apple.
But hey, forbidden fruit is still forbidden fruit.
Right?

Anyway, I saw you in a dream.
And I saw the things we did that time, long ago.
I saw this like it was yesterday, in fact.
I saw the old tools of the trade . . .
The glass pipe urns the lips.
The last packet was something different and thus, our speeds reversed and slowed down to something irreversible.
How young we were . . .
How little I was.
We were like babies or guppies in a whirlpool of tainted sharks.

I know.
I remember.

I saw the places where we pulled a few tricks. I saw them with a haunting reflection, as if the bodies were still outlined in a crime scene.
Then I recalled a moment in the basement of a neighborhood bar.
Do you remember?
The basement is where we hid those times when the weather was harsh and the wind blew too hard to cook up batches in our dirty spoons.
I remember.

No one knows about these things anymore.
No one associates me with that life anymore.
Then again, I doubt too many people associate me with anything anymore; that is, of course, if they ever associated me with anything to begin with.

Our days died with you and your secrets died a long time ago. I guess the cold side of me says this is fine enough, of course.
There is no time but now and the past is nothing more than a memory, or a dream, in this case.
But you my friend, you are encapsulated and sealed with a unchangeable doom that came for you too young.

And still, I am baffled.

I am baffled because this was such a small part of my life.
I know it was. This was years ago.
Decades have gone by and at the same time, those small moments were dangerous and huge.
My small or faded memories are equipped with big and impactful recollections that defied our moral compass.
Then again, this is what happens.
This is what they tell me Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is.
We have a few of these.
or so I think.

They tell me PTSD is a moral injury because you see things that defy the natural order of life.
You see things that defy our moral lessons.
We defied them too –
For sure.

You are not supposed to see gunshots or have to run for safety.
You are not built for the overdoses, or to wake up and see someone, half-gone, and going fast, until their lifelessness astounds you to an awareness that yes, this is real.
This is not a dream.

I see you sometimes or come across something that reminds me of what it was like to be a kid on the dangle. I remember my loose shoestrings and dragging my feet.
I remember walking around and looking for the next score.

I was the lucky one, you said.
I got out, you told me.
And I did.
I was spared.
I agree.

The waters got much deeper and darker for other people.
This is why I save the scars and the comparisons and keep them to myself. I do this because it’s like my friend Dangerous Dan the marathon man used to tell me, “Some are sicker than others, kid

Then he would assure me not to worry because I was one of the “some” in his book.
Danny . . . he was crazy
he meant this lovingly and wholeheartedly because he knew one too many secrets about where I came from.

You once told me, “We didn’t have someone like us to speak to back when we were fucking around.”
I wonder if we did though . . .
I wonder if we would have listened . . .

I wonder if we were as unreachable as the kids today, —too distant from the touch of reality, too different in our ways, too different with our technology, and too defiant to the words of the elders, even when the elders warned us that something bad is about to happen.

Of course, we argued this . . .
Not to me, we said
All warnings came true, in one form or another.
We can both attest to this.

It’s all gone now.
All the little landscapes that we used to run through have all changed; I know.
And while the streets are the same, mostly everyone is gone in one way or another.

I drove by the beverage barn the other day.
I had to laugh.

Man, we were just a bunch of kids.
I still am that kid though. At least, in some ways.
In the good ways, I should say.
Or, so I hope.

I drive by my old house on Merrick Avenue all the time.
I look up at the roof, which is where I spent hours with my little trusted flask.
I remember that thing. I had a little silver flask that was filled with rot-gut gin, and that was awful as ever.
awful indeed, but it was free and stolen from Mikey Toothpick’s uncle.
His Old Man had an endless supply in the basement.
I remember,

There’s a lot here in this little entry.
Then again, little things are often much bigger than we think.

I never name anyone accurately —
I suppose I alter names and places and times to protect the less-than innocent.
But either way, all is well.

And I say this now and I will say this again until the day I die, —you never forget the kids from the neighborhood.
You just don’t.
You never forget the kids from your circle.
Good or bad, there were both in the mix.
I know.
You never forget the names of those who went too young, like Tommy, of all people.
(and the list goes on)
No one was ever surprised to hear the news, by the way.
I suppose the most surprising news was to hear that someone was doing well.
For example, I saw one of the knuckleheads at a wake.
He made fun of me for being cleaned up and wearing a suit.
He made fun of me for walking the line.
And I was insulted at first.
Until I saw his eyes, and then I realized the trips to Brooklyn never ended for him

You never forget the first time you dared to tease the line between life and death.
You never forget who was there to pass you that first hit.

You never forget the times you dared too much.
And you never forget the people you were “away” with

You never forget the things or the times or the nights when the chaos was wild.
Remember?
The engines of momentary suicide were fueled and the colors were drastically different; and that’s because everything chaged after the initiation to a club that everyone warned us not to join.
Yet, we still did.
Scars and all.

The funny thing is . . .
Are you ready for this?
We are older now than our parents were back then.
Some of our old knucklehead friends are grandparents now.
What the fuck is that?
You though?
Your age stopped the day you died.
But I’d be there for you if you were here.

I’d be there for you in a heartbeat
because yes, I am that one.
Good or bad, this has always been me
and you have always been you

Saint Dismas, Patron Saint of Prisoners, the Repentant Thief—
Pray for us.

Saint Maximilian, Patron Saint of Addicts—
Pray for us.

Saint Jude, Patron Saint of Lost causes—
hear us. . .
Hear those who lost their voice and if at all, please, lend me the grace to give the voiceless their turn to speak.

in His name, we pray

(Amen)