239 Carroll Street is the one.

The one with the statue of the smiling jester,

that by the movement of men,

became a stunted symbol of a time that was taken away.

Full of life in the past but

forever encased in a lifeless carcass in the present

and his humility just huffs around the curted courtyard.

Subjected to watch

our empire of dust whisk away into the wind

created by continuing construction.

Suspended in a similar vein,

his arm was made to be around a lamp post

with a top that betrays,

becoming more tilted and tainted

as time takes its turn.

Even so,

embellishing the evacuated air with a million little laughs

did nothing against that other flushed fool’s truth

that swelled in size every day from his own words.

And as much as he would have liked,

the clownman couldn’t tell

that his moxey didn’t hold any meaning

until it was too late.

Being alone in the dark used to be what Jacob was scared of most.

What had just taken place though, had transformed the boy's greatest fear into suddenly his best friend. One that held him and squeezed him and blinded anybody who tried to come near.

Having been witness to the event, the various blouses and dresses that hung above by flimsy hangers did their best to console him. Combing gently through his hair with the softest of threads.

The forgotten shoe boxes off to the left could do nothing more than emanate a smell. A comfortable smell. One that quickly drowned out the fragrance that she had in her hair.

Everything was still. Incomplete. The closet's belongings were in mourning.

All lending a helping hand.

"I will say that I kissed you and you were just blown away. Ok? No need for anything over dramatic. The quicker we get out, the better." Looking through the shutters, she gave a long, exasperated sigh.

"Why couldn't the bottle land on Roy. He looks so cute tonight."

Before she could see, Jacob took the offer of a blue skirt and quickly wiped away a tear.

It seemed as though all those news segments that I watched when I was younger finally got to me. Finally creeped into a place somewhere in the back of my mind where wishes and worries became a reality.

Never before in my life had I awoken from a dream with a pounding heartbeat. First time for everything. I just never had wished it would be combined with this type of illusion though.

The sun was shining. Hitting my cheeks. Making me feel as though I could take on the world. A younger version of myself, with the straps of a backpack harnessed to each shoulder. Walking wihout a care in the world. Near a school actually.

I couldn't tell you if it was possibly my grade school building or my junior high school building. Or myabe an algamation of both. As much as I think back, even today, trying to figure out where I was in time, the version of me that that facade brewed up didn't mind.

There were so many other children around me as well. Going in, hanging outside for a bit before the grown ups corralled us, even a few doing something that they weren't supposed to. Climbing fences. Throwing sticks. Pelting rocks at one another. That sort of thing.

There was so much color. On the backpacks. The clothes. The school building. Even the black, white and grey inbetween of the sicks and rocks stood out. Excitement.

But for some reason, the faces were blurred out. Maybe they were all just enjoying themselves so fast that I couldn't get a glimpse of them.

And then everything slowed down. The faces were still empty. And the peop-, sorry bodies, all started running towards me. Or so I thought at first, considering I was still a little bit from the entrance.

One. Then another. They kept coming. And they didn't even look back.

You know how in a type of situation like this, one might say something along the lines of "By the look on their face, you could tell something was wrong?"

That was the scariest part. With no wide, open eyes to invoke fear and no mouth to scream from, I was just lost in a dizzying array of motion.

But there was a sound. One single sound. A kind of bang that makes a heart jump.

Usually, I wake up when I'm stimulated this much.

I saw him. The source of all this. The reason why this warm day turned into a hellscape.

On the sidewalk now, he aimed with precision. Straight at me. The gunman had his sights set on me.

He fired.

I woke up.

Thirty something years in the same house. Thirty something years of bringing up the same objection whenever his wife or son wanted to go on some sort of trip or vacation. Or even go out all together to see a movie. Or even just go grab a bite to eat.

However long or short the occasion was, they just couldn’t go out at the same time all together. Because according to him, they would have taken everything and his family would come home to an empty house.

--

Sometime in the 70’s. A night just right for a robbery. A small man by himself in a big house. Hurtfully cold and just windy enough to take your breath away. Even if the next sight to take in would do it anyway.

Upon entering, he knew something was wrong. Tiny was shivering all the way on the other side of the kitchen, in the corner. No sound erupted from his mouth. The little toy poodle usually barked and barked until the homeowner walked up the stairs and greeted him The few boxes that were still taped up were strewn all about on the floor. Cabinets were pulled, some even lay on the kitchen floor. Rooms were dismantled entirely.

Running upstairs, and without a moment’s hesitation, he ran to his bedroom. Looking under the bed from the right side, he couldn’t see them. Maybe it was just the angle. Looking under the bed from the left side, there was nothing there either. With his nerves gaining more momentum than his breath, he lifted the bed frame, mattress and all.

The purple bag. The gold coins. My future.

He sat on the kitchen floor with Tiny in his arms. They were both shaking.

--

Hanging onto those feelings. Latching onto that memory.

Traumatized. Obsessed.

An unending need

for an illusion

for an answer

for thin colorless salves of warmth

for undergarments, only, specifically -

were procured from

392 Court Street.

all of these make your own weapons

to defend from those cold never,ever, stopping

brushes of color

just did that much more

to make the passengers un-unique.

already old,

they were rushed into

shallow graves,

treading a beaten path

that harbored sirens underneath.

crying names of passer-by's,

lifting the boards on the floor

carefully putting down the already warped ones

finally feeling guilty

carrying with the strength of a green fog

disguised as a musty smell

over dust and smudge filled glass counters

that tried to hypnotize them even more with a memory of a day

when the ocean was see through.

Marked boxes was the form of insulation from the outside waters,

easily organized for those easily flustered.

This way for

undergarments for cold nights,

answers for cold hearts,

illusions for a dying breed.

Above and in between black and white blades of static,

samurai in boats discussed war and peace

inside of that crudely hung television

in the corner.

Below and within weakly stapled brown bags,

containers of kung pao chicken

and tubs of wonton soup

going cold

were being held by impatient hands.

I too, at such a young age

dangled from an angled noose

choking from the scene above the smells

mesmerized by the exotic picture

that my grandmother's rabbit ears couldn't catch.

They were supposedly built to last.

The red lettering with the white background

Light shining into it from the lamp post wanting to belong

A few feet in the air away from it, a small lonely balcony reaches out, staring at the commotion

Below the sign, green growing out of barrels

The yuppies live here, that’s right

Brooklyn Winery

Ironically, under the sign the windows are designed to look like cells out of a jail

Escaping from your addiction not the bar is the idea

The next one mixes an industrial exterior with a bridal interior, the curtains anyway

another illusion

A woman, walks by both, office in her breath, a cellphone to her ear.

She looks blurry to me.

The sidewalk is cracked.

There’s a puddle over there.

I’m afraid to notice the window that I see from the corner of my eye.

It sits above a store of some kind.

A jagged shutter has been pulled down, keeping out intruders, it’s midnight hero.

Beaten and tagged by someone’s spray paint.

On the other side of that window, blue, just all blue.

I’m watching it now, waiting for it to change color.

It’s not.

For the first time in a long time,

a shiver runs from my feet to my head

and I keep walking home.

And I walk past the park

with no name

animals are told to keep away

trees are just but an

inch away

birds and squirrels flee

and run away

Cameras track my every move

Lights flicker on

yelling at my presence

Warning me that I'm not

supposed to be here

But nay a soul in sight.

It's lonely.

"Beware of Dog."

That's supposed to scare me.

Mine was taken away

The half of tree overe there

doesn't even come close

to what I want it to represent.

Cut down for the fiber optics

You know what? That'll do.