Treighton Mauldin

Sometimes you don't know what to do

But you you do it

Anyway

You say it...

The wrong thing

Try to talk out the hurt

But you're wrong

Its wrong, and

She let's you know

That it's

You

You cause the hurt

Because

That's

What

You

I watch the smoke

Curling round and round

As I exhale

And what what burns

Is not that drag

But the emptiness

I feel

This night was different though, there were only a few of us on the balcony sipping our beers slowly and enjoying conversations ranging from traveling in the Arctic to debating Plato.

The yellow glow of the street lamp was the only light, and it blended colors together deceiving our eyes, and slow twangy music played out of one of the Windows.

I felt my phone buzz; it was her.  It had been less than a day since I had been in her bed, rolling around naked each doing our best at making it hard for the other to get up and go about our day. “I hope you are having fun with your friends! I am going to sleep now…don’t you ever forget how much i love you!” the world stopped around me as i read it.

It’s all the little things that kill me

Waking up and forgetting that you’re gone

Remembering that it was i who left

Washing my hands and feeling my  naked finger

Remembering that it was i who gave the ring  back to you Looking through pictures of all the good times we once had

Remembering the countless bad times between the photos

and knowing soon the little things wont hurt

It was dark and cold when I woke. I rolled over looking for the warmth of my wife’s body only to find a cold imprint on her side of the mattress. I buried my face in my wife’s pillow and filled my head with the smell, and pulled it hard to my face to muffle the groan that squeezed through my clenched jaw without my consent. Sitting on the edge of the bed, with my feet pressed firmly to the ground, I pulled my cold .357 from under my pillow and but the barrel between my lips and against the roof of my mouth. I could  hear movement coming from the kitchen “I guess I’m going to miss breakfast”, I thought to myself as I removed the safety and felt cold smooth trigger under the pad of my finger.

The cold steel of the .357 revolver tasted mildly pleasant when mixed with the left over drip from the coke that had kept us going for the past few days. I breathed slowly, eyes closed, and thought of my wife walking in to find me having finally been able to scratch the itch in the back of my skull. What a fuckin mess it would make.

I looked out the window over the ports of west Oakland toward the San Francisco skyline, the lights of the bridge and the skyscrapers could barely be seen through the thick bay fog, and I remembered that it had been months since I left her. I pulled the gun from my mouth and slid it back under my pillow. She was probably right, i fuck up everything and id probably fuck that up too.

A woman was standing in the doorway when I looked up, naked, holding a class whiskey and a bowl of cereal. I couldn’t remember her name. “I made you breakfast”. She was trying so hard to be what I needed. I stood up and walked toward her my half limp cock flopping around as I walked. I took the glass from her hand, emptied it, and handed it back to her. “That’s all the breakfast I need” I told her as I took the bowl from her hand, took it to the sink and threw it in. “what the fuck? How long has it been since you’ve eaten anyway?” She twisted her face while she spoke. I poured another glass of whiskey and walked on to the back porch to smoke. “There’s only one thing you care about me eating. Get back in bed, I’ll be there in minute” I shouted back to her as I walked out. “And if I don’t?” she yelled, “I don’t fucking care, leave, come out here, do whatever the fuck you want” my words were muffled by the cigarette hanging from my mouth as I tried to light it.

She walked out on to the porch, stood behind me, and wrapped her arms around my waste pressing her face and tits onto my back. Her face was warm, but comforting, “I’m sorry, baby” she mumbled. “Don’t call me that” I told her as I looked out at the sun as she stretched her rosy fingers up into the fog. “Don’t call me baby, don’t call me anything, I’m nothing to you, and you’re nothing to me.” I watched the smoke from my cigarette rise up into the dawn and down the last of the whiskey from my glass. “Go get back in bed” I told her again, and this time she did. I took a long drag, and looked at the empty glass in my hand aching for it to be filled again with the warmth of bourbon, but it was gone. I drank it up and left the bottle empty like my heart. I felt something brewing in the pit of my stomach, but I kept it down, and threw my glass watching it shatter in the street below.

We never take pictures of the bad times, albums full of smiles, kisses, asses, and tits, that prevent us from moving on

It’s the scars that remind us where we have been and how we have grown

It’s the scars that remind us of the lessons that we should have learned the first time

I am an album full of scars the bad memories that i prefer

I take a drink to rinse away the madness she takes one too

to rinse away the sadness and to fuel the fire burning in her mind and we sit in the silence

choking back apologies a futile effort to win the fight that we forgot who started

Lost in a haze of early morning mist cheap wine, and cocaine

Atlas Quiggly walked towards his home, along the dark streets of Sacramento, stumbling drunkenly as he tried to light his cigarettes. He passed the old Victorian style homes with raised front porches and steps that lead up to them. He stopped in front of one that he had past many times since he had lived in Sacramento, but had never particularly caught his attention. It was a light blue house with ornate trim around the elevated porch. He walked to the top of the stairs and sat on the top step smoking his cigarette.

The door opened and shut quietly, Atlas heard it, but he did not turn to see who had come through it. When he looked up he saw the large pair of eyes that were the color of the clear night with stars of youth reflecting out of them. The eyes belonged to a girl, who could not have been older than seventeen, and when Atlas Quiggly looked at her she smiled and took the cigarette from his hand and took a long drag and held it like an embrace from loved one that she hadn’t seen in years.

Atlas Quiggly lit another one and looked back towards the street, and she sat down beside him and crossed her legs, swinging her bare foot back and forth. They finished the cigarettes without saying a word. When they finished the girl rested her head on Atlas Quiggly’s shoulder, “why are you out here?” she asked. Her voice was smooth and cool and sound much too strong for a girl of her apparent age. “I don’t know, I just felt like sitting” Atlas said in response.

“It’s quite late, shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Atlas asked.

“I don’t sleep much lately” said the girl. Her head was still on Atlas Quiggly’s shoulder and as she spoke she wrapped her arms around the one arm that Atlas was resting on his knee. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Atlas Quiggly” He responded.

“I know who you are,” she said “you are the architect who is going to build that new building in Oakland for father.”

“For Father?” Atlas Quiggly asked, his voice muffled by the fresh cigarette hanging between his lips.

“Aren’t you going to ask me my name?” asked the girl. Atlas smiled, as he lit the cigarette.

 “I hadn’t planned on it.” He said.

“Well, I will tell you anyway. My name is Hannah.” She said “My father is Randall Roberts.” Atlas turned and looked at the top of the girls head. “Really?” He looked back towards the dark street and leaned his head over resting it on top of Hannah’s. Atlas pulled a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, and offered it to Hannah. “No, thank you” she said politely, her head still resting on Atlas’ shoulder. “I quit smoking.”

“Oh really? When?” Asked Atlas.

“Just this very second”

“Was you mothers name Rose?” Asked Atlas

“In fact it is. How did you know that?” asked Hannah.

“I met your mother last week while I was in Oakland meeting with your father about his new building.” He said, as he released a plume of smoke into the air and watched as is floated up towards the night sky, dancing across the stars.

“Oh, really?” she said with absolutely no change in the sound of her voice that could be interpreted as wonder, or excitement. “I haven’t seen my mother in a long time.” Hannah Roberts’ voice was still calm and cool as though the fact that she had not seen her mother in years, let alone that she did not know if she were alive or dead, was just a simple truth.

“Yes, I spent every night last week with her. We would sit on the stoop, where I assume she was living, and she would tell me stories about her life. She even told me about you, and your brothers.” Atlas said.

“I don’t remember much of her, but I do remember how much she loved to talk about herself.” She said.

“Do you miss her at all?” asked Atlas.

“Not really, it’s hard to miss someone you never really got to know. You don’t miss strangers that you see on the buss, do you?” Asked Hannah as she rubbed her head affectionately on Atlas Quiggly’s shoulder.

“Sometimes I do miss strangers that I see on the bus” Atlas responded. “I will even think about them often, and wonder what they are doing. Are they in love? Are they lonely? Do they drink coffee or tea? Have they ever been to my favorite Bar? In fact I think about strangers all the time, and tomorrow when I wake up I will think about you.”

“That’s very sweet of you” Hannah said. “I don’t like very many people, and I don’t care about even more of them” she said “But, I will likely think about you in the morning too”. Atlas smiled at this and took one last long drag of his cigarette before he threw it down in to the street. “Your Mother is dead.” Atlas told the girl, “she died last night, she was alone, when I found her, on the stoop where I would meet her. I stayed there, with her, all night.” As Atlas spoke tears were forming in his eyes, and rolling down his cheek, but he did not notice that he was crying.

“It was very sweet of you to stay with her” Hannah said, and she kissed the salty trail that Atlas’ tears had left on his face. “Don’t cry” She said. “I’m not sad at all, and I’m very grateful that I got to hear this from you”

“You are too strong for your age” Atlas said as he kissed Hannah’s forehead. “It’s not good for someone so young to be like that; it makes you jaded as you get older”

“I have always been told that I am old for my age. What do they call it? An old soul!” she said, excited that she had remembered the phrase. “That’s what all Father’s friends call me – An old soul.”

 Hannah stood up and pulled Atlas up by his hand. Atlas Quiggly stood facing the young girl, the top of her head barely reaching the top of his chest, as a warm almost motherly, smile grew slowly across her face. She reached up and pushed back his wool hat, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down, and kissed him, long and hard. Atlas wrapped his arms around the small of her back, and held her tight against his body.

“I have to go in now, I’m tired.” Hannah whispered, “go on home, everything will be alright, I promise.” She said, kissing him softly one more time before pulling away. Atlas nodded, buttoned his jacket, pulled up his collar and walked back to the street. Hannah stood on the porch and watched him as he walked to the end of the block, the she turned and walked inside.

             Atlas walked, and walked, and walked, he had forgotten all about his car which was in the long term parking at the Amtrak station. When he arrived at his home, which was an old split level house of which he and his wife occupied the upper floor, he stood out front looking at the window on the front of the house that faced west, and lead to the bedroom where his wife was asleep, thinking that Atlas was still in Oakland. He finished his cigarette and walked inside.

Atlas Quiggly walked to his liquor cabinet, and opened the 60 year McCallan that he had been given as a gift and was saving for a special occasion, and poured himself a tall drink.  He sat in the living room, in the dark, and the quiet, dinking his scotch and watching the door at the end of the hall way that lead to the bedroom. He stood painfully, and walked down the hall towards the bedroom. He stayed in the doorway watching his wife sleep on her side, holding her swollen pregnant belly with one arm, and the other tucked under her head.

of all the words 

at our disposal 

none seem to convey

the way all the 

shitty poetry 

I was on my way home from cashing a generous check from a newspaper back east that had published a few of my articles. I stopped at the liquor store that was a few blocks from our apartment in East Oakland, on the corner of foothill and 5th avenue. It wasn’t a great part of town; outside the store where groups of men standing in circles, leaning on old beat to shit cars, and listening to loud unintelligible music from shit stereos.  It was a mixed neighborhood with many Blacks, Asians, Mexicans, and Pakistanis, but not too many whites. We stood out, and most people didn’t like us, well they didn’t seem to have a problem with my wife, but she’s Puerto Rican. I walked through a circle of black men trading cash for little bags with white powder in them. This liquor store was a great spot to pick up pretty much anything you needed to forget how awful your life is. I went there often to pick up booze and smokes and occasionally to meet my dealer Little Tony, we called him that because he was a midget, and he sold us cocaine.