The next American Jesus -
in the same way (sort of) that Lincoln
was like that -

sat back in the red-cushioned
diner booth and took a pull off
his St. Pauli Girl;

raised a finger,
ordered another.

Outside on Rt. 95
an 18-wheeler hushed by

The girl gazed at him,
bored, tired

sexed up
worn out

sexed out

I leap up and start running but I'm running too fast and too suddenly and my legs give way and then I am on the floor with my legs kicking wildly and in terror I begin to shout and bray, emitting a nasal scream screaming hep hep HEP NO NO NOOOOOOOO

it would be OK if it was a dream but it was not OK for a person just on their way to take a piss and then perhaps a drink from the water bubbler

(what was going to happen was the narrator who is not right in the head - not sure if he's actually retarded or just very mentally ill -

chapter 2 of this story is where the narrator takes a long bus ride to a strange city
and gets off the bus and starts putting on an elaborate act of mental retardation;
trying, in fact, to be institutionalized;

Chapter 3 is where he is finally institutionalized and then tries to convince his captors that the retardation is reversing itself;

Chapter 4 is where his bluff is called and he is semi-publicly excoriated in the hospital lobby;

Chapter 5 is where he hops another bus and moves on to another town, where he solicits a prostitute and gets her and himself terribly drunk and in trouble. This narrator always has money because of his mysteriously received monthly "Estate check" which is another story

What was going to happen was the narrator, who is not right in the head - not sure if he's actually retarded or just very mentally ill - finally gets to the basement, where he's hidden a blue thermal long underwear suit (top and bottom) and a red bandana mask

which he wears do-rag style, except pulled down over his eyes with eyeholes cut out. And a red cape worn draped from his neck, made from a huge piece of heavy bright red canvas stolen off a roll from the hatchback of Mrs. Healy's sister-in-law (when that lady was parked in the

driveway.) OK,

the narrator has a superhero outfit hidden downstairs, and his goal is to outfit himself and run out to the plane crash in the field by the highway.

Jim has some drunken hijinks in there.

Abdul is a mystery. can you see

why I'm not finishing this one? or maybe I will. who

gives a fuck?)

Mrs. Healy keeps the basement door locked to keep transient former borders from breaking into the house.

Two summers ago a heroin addict and former boarder known only as Shane jimmed open the rear bulkhead, thereby gaining entry to the house wherein he ran from room to room brandishing Mrs. Healy's butcher's cleaver (the one she used and still uses to hack up the chicken and beef parts for the Sunday stew) and demanding payment.

I lost about $50 in that raid. I would have lost more but I hadn't yet cashed my Estate check from that month.

Now the basement door stays locked as does the bulkhead.

Mrs. Healy has two keys. One she keeps hidden, the other she loans out to the boarders she trusts - Jim, Abdul, and me. None of us are especially trustworthy. But we have lived here the longest. Mainly deaf and wholly mute, Mrs. Healy has come to depend on us.

There was a plane crash out in the field by the highway yesterday morning. I saw it happen. The plane circled and went down fast. Then from my bedroom window I could see a pillar of white smoke rising on the pale day.

I hurried downstairs. In the kitchen, Mrs. Healy was cooking eggs for Jim and Abdul, two of the other boarders. Abdul was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper and jiggling his knee. Jim was pouring from an eighth bottle of Popov into a glass of orange juice. The radio on the counter next to the toaster was playing 1030 WBZ Weather On The Sixes.

"Mrs. Healy," I said, "Can I get the key to the basement?"

She continued to cook the eggs, working them in the pan with the spatula.

"Mrs. Healy," I said.

"Her hearing aids have apparently failed her this morning," said Abdul, turning a page of his paper. The paper this morning was the Boston Globe. Abdul occasionally lifted one from one of the neighborhood's curb boxes, on the way back in from one of his nightly peregrinations.

Jim sipped his screwdriver and looked at the floor at my feet. "I have the key," he said.

"I need it," I said.

Jim looked at me. "After my eggs."

"I need it now," I said.

The phone rings. I pick up.

"Why can't you simply drop the pose?" a voice insists.

I dissolve into mist for more than a minute.

Lucky for me the phone don't clatter off my desk when it fall. The phone instead drops rather inaudibly to the carpet.

When I phase back in
the cushion of my seat is moist and there's a beery odor.

I pick the receiver up off the carpet and listen.

"I'm still here," says the voice.

I hang up.
Go back
to work, but

it's no use. I start writing poems about mutations for the rest of the day

boredom
mill town

tower
must go