3rd Eye: Four Stories

A man stands on a ledge, arms spread wide he swan dives into the abyss.
For a perfect moment clarity is his to behold. All that is and was and will be laid out before him in a patchwork quilt of interconnected experiences. At the Apex of his leap he understands, but this knowledge has come too late he is beyond reproach. Entering another state he will take what he knows to the street below.
The dog that licks his broken face, flees before its hunger is abated. The clean-up crews do not lick, they hose the concrete down and bag the corpse.

The Dog, stretched skin over a walking mummified corpse.
Skittering through stale morning streets, pavement with a hang-over, down past the by-the-hour hotel. Scents of piss, sweat and cum, scents like rotting fruit, into the alleyway, overturned trash cans, needles, diapers and fastfood wrappers, breakfast.
Out front a transvestite whore, fights with her pimp/lover, a small stocky Mexican in long shorts and basketball shoes, on the street below, their audience shrieks with Roman delight as a blow is landed, the Mexican crumples clutching himself, she spits on his head and steps lightly into the foyer of the hotel. Up the creaking stairs to the second floor, dark welts flexing on the bare back where the dress does not cover.
A victory party begins, acid, dope and cheap wine, sisters in harmony singing along with radio sonnets, air filling with smoke and visions, the Mexican slips in shortly after, takes a toke and his whore, she forgives him and they share the needle, a sign of faith, like the portraits of the Maddona and saints on the walls.
A man without pauses at the door outside, before continuing on up these stairs, life an upward struggle, his tie is loosened and his shirt is stained with street grime, alcohol and mucus. Whores push past, the day begins for them now, habits need sustaining and on the street outside Here Be John's. They descend on the pavement, step on the concrete where the beaten Mexican lay, down to the bus station a block down the street, looking for dates, good natured bitching at the pan-handlers who flirt and hit on them for free.
Man with a shopping cart full of cans and bottles, trips on the curb while crossing the street, loses it all, is helped up by a large man with gold on his hands, don't wanna sell no crack for you, don't wanna sell no crack for you, can-man mutters as he picks up his stock, the man with golden hands merely nods and lets him go, he will in time.
The man loosens his tie more, flinches away from the caress of a late rising whore, doesnt need her, can't afford her, can't look into her eyes see's the past reflected back, staggers up the next flight a moan of terror bubbling up through his throat.
The Mexican rolls over naked on the bed, runs his hand up the thigh of his transvestite whore, she does not respond, he shakes her and her head rolls, eyes open blank staring at him, yellow of bile against the red of lipstick drips from the corner of her mouth. The mix was bad, or cut with killing powders. The Mexican falls back away from the fresh death, pukes on himself, moans choking, strikes his head on the edge of furniture, falls onto his back on the floor, pukes again, stunned, chokes slowly.
Can-man has seen the destroyer come, the small yellow rock that swept his sister up, chewed her body down to the bones and then cast her out. He could never do that, never sell destruction, his sister's ghost would never stop haunting him then. Never stop coming to him each night as he tried to sleep under newspaper covers, her eyes large in her wasted face, skin grey and dying, begging for cash to fill her pipe, fill her skin with shit, fill her life with crack.
The dog chews diapers, cardboard burger boxes torn and cleaned around it, moves away pisses on a wall, marks its territory, checks other scents, heads out towards the street.
The tie is cast aside, the coat is open and flapping in the thick morning breeze, in golden sunlight the man steps up onto the ledge four stories high.

The Man, Transvestite whore, Can-Man and The Dog....

A man stands on a ledge, arms spread wide he swan dives into the abyss. For a perfect moment clarity is his to behold. All that is and was and will be laid out before him in a patchwork quilt of interconnected experiences. At the Apex of his leap he understands, but this knowledge has come too late he is beyond reproach. Entering another state he will take what he knows to the street below. The dog that licks his broken face, flees before its hunger is abated. The clean-up crews do not lick, they hose the concrete down and bag the corpse.

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