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(@) obscurity, coffee & a dream of a dying man.

IT IS SUNDAY MORNING, & AT EIGHT: THIRTY I TAKE MY
SECOND CUP OF COFFEE IN EFFORTS to drive away the
dream.
but I do not want to forget the man that cried into my
ear.
my dreams have been strange over the previous few
months, in this life transition of mine.  I don’t
remember many, but the few I do cause me to furrow my
brow, on the brink of a nightmare, wondering why they
want to kill me and why I almost understand.

I WAS ORDERING A CAFÉ AU LAIT, my usual favourite,
holding true even in the unreality of dreaming.  my
sister and I had gone to the Coffee Grove, the town’s
local beanery and were chatting with the owner, Jen,
as we waited for our java.  the surroundings of the
Grove had changed, but as Jen explained, they had
relocated closer to the interstate to pick up
wayfaring pilgrims of the Outlet Mall.
the Coffee Grove grew quite busy.
peopled clamoured around the register as my sister and
I lingered, person after person fighting for the front
of the line.  a man pressed just behind me and
croaked: “I just want a black coffee.”
don’t we all?  I thought with a wry smile, as I waited
for the hubbub to drizzle out.
“with lots of scotch in it,”  he yammered on, his
voice tiring and fading.  he kept it strong in
determination to be heard, each of his apparent
panicked thoughts.
he cried out loudly, angrily:  “would someone please
let me get a coffee….”
and he sagged, his eyes sharp and glaring.  “the pain
in my chest…it happened all of the sudden…the pain in
my chest, the burning….”
as if aware that I was acutely graphing his sentences
while the others ignored, he pressed up behind me,
leaned heavy against me.
“can you feel my heart beat, little girl?”  he seemed
to hate me.  “bet you’ve always wanted to feel a heart
beat like that…”
I was repulsed and angry and disgusted and afraid.  I
could feel the warmth of his sapping energy against my
shoulder blades.  I could feel the wild pulsing
drumming of his heartbeat.
I jerked away, turned sharply.
his face was not particularly aged, but lined with
incredible pain and frustration and desperation.  he
couldn’t have been over thirty-five, with dark hair
and a navy suit.
he jerked away, jerked towards the door.
one final desperate yell:  “would anybody please help
me?”
and anger in his voice, accusation in his voice.
I sighed my relief.  but I could see over my eyes a
bright, glowering image of his heart, his lungs
against darkness—huge and pulsing and swelling in a
final clenching at life before they could finally
collapse and never begin again.
I was guilt-ridden.
my sister and I edged into the car and began to drive
through the harshly green countryside—the sky grey
with coming rain, the land wet with previous rains.  
Rachel wanted to know what happened to the man.  I
murmured absently that I wondered if anyone helped
him, if anyone would take him to the hospital.
we drove only for a little while before we saw his
blue sedan, stalled haphazardly in a gravel drive. 
his body wasn’t anywhere.  I knew that he was dead.
my guilt plagued me.  we drove home.

RACHEL FOLLOWED THE NEWSPAPER TO SEE WHAT HAD HAPPENED
and I found myself chasing the story.  I went down to
where he had died, a furrowed field of dark earth. 
the cops were gathered around, each in costume.  it
was halloween and they fought for the right to wear
their costumes.  they laughed and cajoled and related
to me the story.
I could see where he fell.  a deep, eroded impression,
with distinct indentions where his head sank and where
his body fell.  I could all but feel where his heart
wildly beat against the soft dirt.
I lay my hands in it.  I traced the spot.
around this place there was a wide circle, a traveled
path.  I frowned at it and studied it.
the cops told me:  “that’s where they were dancing.”
and the one with the clown face laughed.
“apparently they thought he was a god of some sort and
they had a ritual.  danced around him.  anointed his
face and body with bees wax…made and offering of some
sort.”
I stared at the circular patterns around where his
body fell.
“as he was dying?”
“yeah.”
I had a brief vision of his wavering sight.  of the
garish faces whirling around him, worshiping him,
oblivious or fascinated of his wildly fluttering
heart.
disturbed, I went home.

I got to be guilty.  why had I been too afraid?

IT HAPPENED AGAIN and this time, it was more apparent
what had occurred.
the crime and sickness in a girl was followed, and
this time they knew that her heart had suddenly wildly
beat by the drug that she was given.  the media
realised that the ritual vultures that gathered around
her fevered body knew that she would be falling.  that
they had planned her demise there.
I had visions of them falling naked against her.  I
had visions of her wild eyes.  I had an understanding
of their minds, oblivious, dark as they circled
around.

my guilt made me desperate, and I anxiously followed
the news.  I kept my eyes wary for evidence of a
wildly beating heart and a dying man.  I carried on,
with life and errands and those things that keep us
occupied.  the heaviness never left my eyes.

I knew that they were drugging her, when Rachel left
us for the public restroom.  
this girl was not my sister, but a friend,
nonetheless.  we had been shopping and she had slipped
away while I brooded.  I tried to alert my other
companion, but he dismissed my paranoia, knowing how
obsessed I had become.  I banged into the swinging
doors and florescent lights and saw them dragging her
away.  they had snared her quickly, not waiting for
the pain and the wandering and the falling.  I saw
them drag her limp body out the door.

and here is where my alarm clock began to insist I
awake.
and here is where the dream continued to unfold, like
pages in a magazine with stories and pictures and
words.  I skimmed over those words with a vague
understanding, my attention completely captivated by
the pictures of their faces.
close pictures.  close pictures of their oblivious
eyes, their lips parted in chant, their thin brows
raised, their dusky skin.  and the dirt.  the soil.
I could feel it, warm against my back and I could feel
the wild beating of my heart.
I had read enough of the articles to know what had
happened.
I had fallen.  they had captured me.  they were
circling around me, falling against me, waiting for me
to die.
my heart beat wildly, my eyes opened wide.  the soil
warm and folding, waiting to cover me.
I waited for somebody to save me.
I was horrified and I wanted somebody to save me.




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