Stepping Stone

And there you stand
Your smile is brighter than the sun
Yet I can’t convince myself to run
Despite the lies you told to me

You come in close
I can feel your breath down in my soul
As my body loses all control
But I’m not taking off my clothes

I’m sure you know
The melody of my broken heart
How my pulse quickens, my nerves restart
With the words falling from your lips

I tell you go
Won’t give into you this time around
Won’t let you abuse me when I’m down
Not gonna be your stepping stone

Your eyes meet mine
Through the crowded room of empty smiles
And you’re loaded with your charmer’s wiles
Fluorescence glowing on your face

You say hello
With the summer moon glint in your eyes
But I see through your dark disguise
As your fingertips trace my skin

I tell you no
Won’t give into you this time around
Won’t let your blue eyes bring me back down
Not gonna be your stepping stone

Justification

I can feel it now
The pain of losing you
Sunlight shows my frown
Revealing my dark mood
Clouds are raining down
I can’t believe it’s true

I close my eyes
And I hear you
Call my name
My thin disguise
Lies in shambles
Nothing’s the same and

Now that you’re gone
I’m waiting for
Your explanation
Those words I
Never heard
How can I know
Where we went wrong
Without justification

You said that you loved me
Did you change your mind?
I can’t help but feel
I’ve wasted all my time
Cause when you’re not around
The sun just don’t shine

What's Your Name?

“What’s your name?” He asked in his thick Russian, don’t-fuck-with-me accent.

I obviously didn’t answer as promptly as he would have liked because the next second his hammer collides with my little finger. Endorphins rush from my brain into my blood. It’s a colorful rush, a cold wave sweeping over my body. No drug could give a man this kind of high. I could sit here all night and let this continue except that I kind of needed the hand he’s pureeing into baby food. And, of course, I know that in the next ten minutes he’s going to leave me in the cold, damp warehouse--right beneath the drip coming in through the leaky patch of roof--to feel the full extent of my injuries. That’s the bad thing about adrenaline highs: they’re pretty damn short.

The hammer connects with my ring finger this time. “Norman, you fucker,” I wince, “Tom Norman.” I don’t have a choice but to tell him. His next target is my middle digit. Being the cocky, mouthy bastard I am, I’m rather fond of it and hope to keep it.

The six and a half foot, 300-pound commie claps my cheek and fumbles around in his blazer pocket for another cigarette. He chuckles as he lights it, the gray smoke filtering through his nostrils.

“Can I get one of those?” I ask, only to be rewarded with his bowling ball-sized fist connecting with my face. The only thing more painful than being tortured was being without my cigarettes. Igor wipes the blood from my mouth off his hand with a silk kerchief and reaches for his cell phone. Time to make his phone call.

As I look around the rusting Oakland warehouse, I think about the circumstances that have led me here, tied to a metal chair and in nothing but my skivvies in the middle of January, listening to that damn Russian’s droning echo off the walls of what is now a toxic waste site. It was actually a funny story. Too bad the ending was looking pretty damn bleak.

This all started back in November 2007--the day before Thanksgiving. It was my last job of the week. Believe it or not, there’s a high influx of hits around the holidays. This last job as supposed to be a cakewalk--knocking off the six-timing wife of a self-important investment banker. Now normally, I don’t take jobs on dames, but this piece of work was a real bitch.

New Orleans

I sit in my car, sipping a Café Au Lait, wondering what New Orleans feels like at this very moment. The emotions that run through me are not particular, just an overall feeling of awe and abode washing over me. The warm bittersweet fluid fills my mouth, flooding my tender, kinetic taste buds, before seeping down my throat and imbuing my sated stomach the way the warm thick, humid air of New Orleans snakes around the body of unsuspecting victims and deflowers their virginal inexperience of its unique heat. Ah, that air, what would it feel like as it pushes into my pores, moving through my epidermis, up to my brain and clouding all reasonable thought? Would it make the unconventional lights of Bourbon Street seem even more acute? Would it make the strings of the guitars, basses, and cellos of the dexterous jazz musicians vibrate with more passion and endurance?

I would sit outside the small, historical Café du Monde, under the green awning in my swanky black dress and savvy black shoes with a large-rimmed, black hat and white gloves covering my milky, pale skin. I would peer over the top of my cat-eye sunglasses at the tourists in their khaki shorts and tank tops, their cameras adorningly draped around their necks. With Faust in one hand, and my coffee in the other I mix in perfectly with the wealthy éminence grises of first street-–the core of the Garden District. The Café Au Lait is sweeter in New Orleans, thicker. It isn't served in a paper cup, but a porcelain one from which the steam rises from the rim and disperses in the air, leaving its scent lingering at my nostrils. Word by word and sip by sip I absorb the preternatural meaning of the text.

The last sip of the coffee fills my mouth, its aroma absorbed my willing nostrils, and I am back in my car, sitting . . . waiting for nothing to happen once again. The dreams of New Orleans leave me like wreckage on the shore after the gusts of the storm blew them from safety. I fear I shall never see its tree lined streets, its French cafes, or its grand avenues again.