Jasper bought the poem before ever reading it, tucked it away
inside of his jansport backpack, and kept walking on down roosevelt street towards the city.
he could feel it moving, gently, through the fabric of the
backpack pressing against his back, right where the
V and the A of his NIRVANA tee-shirt stuck to his skin.
the rain was light, and the sun was coming, and the
liquor store was straight ahead. the streets would be
dry by dusk, he had 16 dollars for food and drink, and
Sunshine had left town with Skittle two days ago, heading
for portland, the land of dope and glory.
he was closer to alone than he had been in years, filling
the emptiness the same way he always had, by using
anything that even hinted at solidity to clog the
flowing gaps.
in the bar the night before he had met one of Christ's disciples, who had foretold Jasper's fate. now he simply
awaited his destiny, who he was told would be blonde
and found alone on the streets of Seattle, looking
for a life to accomidate her dying. the disciple,
who was drunk and nearer to obnoxious than not, had spoken
inches from Jasper's face. the hairs above his lip grew
in in strange, almost ailing little patches. he
smoked menthol. and had terrible form on his break shot.
Jasper felt the poem shift it's weight, settle, shift again, turn, and finally rest itself against his lower back, where the tattoo of a dagger drips one tiny drop of blood.
back in his witchcraft days, he had been so proud of that piece. it let everyone
know how serious he was.
he would even go shirtless, exposing his emaciated form, his too-large-for-a-man nipples and the acne on his shoulders and upper spine.
that tattoo had taken an apple jar of vodka and
three Sisters of Mercy albums to get through. when
it was over, Jasper remembered knowing for certain that
he was now more powerful than the other people around him.
these days he only thought about it when something rubbed against the area or someone happened to see him shirtless and comment on it.
youth is a whiskey and time is like water.
he could feel the poem breathing now, the way that it had positioned
itself in his bag, he could feel it breathing.
the sun had come out, and the surfaces of things were drying themselves in it's rays, which
declared to Jasper that it was time for a break, to sit, to stop.
he pulled the bottle of water (which was water from a drinking fountain ran into a discarded bottle of
evian found blown against a curb) that he carried with him out of the drink carrier on his pack and took a long swallow. he could see the Needle sticking up above the buildings of the campus area.
over in Wallingford, he knew that Catboy would be rousing
himself, heading down to the Blue Moon to find Elixer, and they would come looking for him, knowing, instictively, that he had scored cash and would have a bottle later. Jasper minded their intrusion on his life less than any anyone else's, which was as close
to friendship as he would get. except with Sunshine, though, but Sunshine was headed to portland , feeding her wounds with shit that Jasper couldn't offer up to dine upon. Sunshine was setting, as it is... perpetuating
a cycle that so few even know turns like the worm.
Jasper knew. a few times over.
when his ass hit grass, a sigh escaped him, and his legs heated up at the joints. too long on asphalt, he thought to himself, and to anyone else listening in. he wondered about Catboy and Elixer, if they would be around. he hoped they would. Elixer was the gorgeous little brunette hippie girl with the 60's eyes and the bandana, the kind that could fill out a shapeless dress and make it more fuckable than
a red-light whore in full-pump regalia. she would go down to the
wharf and wiggle her tits around to get weed from the
old heads living down there
on 'Nam injuries or mental disability payoffs. she always
smelled like dirt covered by woman and petruli, which did something for Jasper. there's alot to be said for
a dirty woman.
the streetlights were coming on.
the poem shifted again, and jasper took off his backpack and sat it on the ground beside him. he unzipped it halfway and stuck his hand inside. he touched the paper in there, and it was still, cold, lifeless.
'the poem is still, lifeless, when observed with scrutiny, sir, but when it is not being defiled by our eyes... it is alive. yes, as alive as you or me. more, even.'
there had been a sparkle in his eyes that made Jasper feel like laying down next to him and never moving away, like
an old, loyal dog. he wore a colorful shirt and khaki's.
like something you'd buy at Kohls.
his voice sounded like a cliche.
and Jasper, hand and fingers making their own decisions, in cahoots with arm and shoulder, reached into his pocket and gave the man five dollars for the poem.
which was now a cold piece of paper in his hand, just like
it had become when he had put his hand inside the aquarium, where it had been gently fluttering it's edges when he first saw it, when he had bought it. as soon as he touched it then, too, it had fallen limp, lost heat, and returned to inanimate paper.
he raised it to his face, to his eyes.
the words were written in black.
across the street, a tiny black girl was carrying
a pizza and a coffee shop was playing some terrible new age shit through speakers mounted under a canopy, and a beggar's dog barked at the students heading to class, somehow
knowing that if his drunken master was not slumped and passed out against the building, he'd be barking at them, too.
the sun was warm, but new clouds were moving in from out
over the ocean. heavier clouds. Jasper would need to find a good place to keep dry, maybe see if could crash with
Elixer's cousin Folly, who was a great guy if he didn't
get too fucked up and insist on letting him suck you off all night long.
a wind was picking up, blowing low through the building, carrying the cold of the northern pacific with it. in response, the
paper in his hands fluttered as if he were not there.
there was the sound of weeping on this wind, and Jasper
saw, from behind a tree down twenty feet to his left, strands of a yellow hair that would turn gold once washed
and admired properly. Jasper felt the dark drift, felt it crawl along the hairs on his arm.
he could see a knee, a hand on it, and a foot wearing a battered
old red Chuck Taylor, hightop, hidden in the cuff of a pair of faded jeans.
while he wasn't looking, he could feel the poem breathing in his hands.
a gust of wind blew up, forceful and sudden, as will happen in Seattle, and lifted the hair from behind the tree higher, fuller. he saw a hand and an arm raise up, pull the hair back into some order.
the hand had long, slender fingers. one with a silver ring. the arm was covered
in a blue sweater.
the poem breathed deeper.
another gust of wind blew in between the buildings, rushing up the street and exploding into the open space where they sat. the hair rose and twirled again.
the poem drank in great gasping breaths of air as it flew away, Jasper's hands letting go, granting freedom as he
walked the space
between himself and the other side of the tree.
Birth sign: Cancer
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