Kaminski Writing

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” _Kerouac

Granite

Rand McNally and pushpins come to me in dreams. Kerouac sits in the corner of the room and whispers of the Road while I hallucinate off the side of the bed and burn my money in Alaska.

* * *

There are hidden parts of the Road. Varied and mysterious as the wooden playgrounds of my youth. Before the corporate child-proofing of America tore them all down, those wooden fortresses where we’d adventure while our mothers talked. Each time we went, a new cubby, a new nook that we’d get splinters working our way into. Maybe they tore that old wooden sanctuary down because they knew I’d get stuck trying to go back. The new blueprints, mere instructions to lead me out onto the interstates and super-highways of the Great Somewhere-Else. Out to find the nooks–those mountain nooks where we climbed our way into Utah and shouted victory. Where we found broken bottles and our joy. The nooks that beckoned us into their solitude and holiness.

Rand sat in the passenger seat, silent and pointing vaguely as he guided us through the mountains. He knew we had missed a vital turn miles ago, but He just smiled and hung His arm out the window. He hadn’t drawn the road we were on. Rand was letting us go until we found the nook He knew would change us. Until we found the mountain that overwhelmed us and dropped us to our knees in humble supplication.

Avoiding an avalanche, we made our way to Montana and the Northeast Entrance. The engine had turned our wheels enough for us to finally realize, like naïve kids on a tire swing, there was no going around the Continental Divide. Then Rand relented, pointed and showed us the view and private country roads he traced to tease. He nodded because He knew we held no concern for speed. He knew we wanted to see what he was drawing out there in his solitude, and he was happy to show us. He took us, giddy as a madman.

Rand’s priest led us out in solemn procession, that old Road, with his sporadic signs to keep us going. Through mystic preparation we were carried along to insure what the Road had eagerly hoped. It was apparent from the license plate and the dirt South Dakota left on our souls and shoes; we had been baptized in gasoline and oil. This was our confirmation that we could understand the Road’s humble prayers and clever puns when he switched back over on himself in endless asphalt mantra.

The Road leads toward the Sun and swims in all of its finite blackened boundaries. The most Holy Smile. Spanning cheek to cheek with dashed and full pure teeth. Big Sur to Cadillac Mountain. Smiling to keep the traffic Holy.

* * *

The Spirit rode shotgun and read incantations out of the paperback scripture a kid at Borders recommended on his last day. The scriptures a Teacher sought to give me on my last day. Given in holy silence and sacred weight: Rand McNally / The 2011 ROAD ATLAS: America’s #1 Road Atlas. The incantations began to roll in waves of spiritual frenzy. Pouring out from guttural diaphragm like libations. Rising around the rearview like incense. Tongues on fire. We cast ourselves into the Wild Plains and Nameless Earth. The words began, unnatural and unfamiliar:

Dead Indian Pass
Heart Mountain
Sleeping Giant
Eagle Peak
Absaroka- Beartooth Wilderness
Buffalo Bill Scenic Pass
Teton, Togwotee, Wiggins, Wapiti, Dunraven, Bighorn

And the boys back in Buffalo–
Just past Crazy Woman Creek-
Who spoke late at night
And let us sleep outside,
Whose first day it was on the job
After getting laid off in Sheridan
After fourteen years of honest work
And the snow they’d seen

And how the town got the name
From a hat.
From a man
who spent his life
At the spout of the Erie Canal.

Rand whispers from the dashboard:
“^ Granite Peak, 12,799ft, is the Highest Point in Montana…”

* * *

In the silence we waited to see what would happen. We waited to see if our spells were real. To see if the omnipresent Road would see us with open ears long enough to hear our prayers. I gripped the wheel chanting, call-and-response, with the Shotgun Spirit, “Route 212. Switchbacks. Just over the Montana Border. Just before Red Lodge. Open Late May Thru Mid October.”

The Holy Road heard us, and guided us. Rand relaxed in the backseat, laughing in recollection of the time he traced this road pace by meticulous pace, barefoot as a prophet. I pulled over to join Rand laughing. We fell down on a windy rest stop, pounding and kicking the human ground until our fists bled and we stained the Earth. Pouring blood into our prayers and chants. Exchanging genes and hemoglobin and passion. Crying out to be changed. Crying out for salvation in the red valley.

Here comes Christ on a bike. Asking where we’re from. Telling us he knows where we’ve been and proving it.

* * *

Snow in the grill. In the clouds. We took turns taking shits in holes drilled into the solid, regal mountain crest. Shitting on a pew. Sins deposited directly. Removed too far to hear consequence and purgatory on the mountain.

We jumped and whooped in that windy silence. Imagining the skeleton grip of gravity loosened and we might fly and float right off into the goddamn clouds. In the same way the impossible snow-topped mountains blurred where the jet-puffed mountains began.

The Road took us by the wrist like an expert child who knew every nail hammered into the deathtrap playground. Leading us to the hideouts. Showing us how to scale the edge of the wood where no one was ever intended to climb. And our mothers died watching us, reading Readers’ Digest in their uniform minivans. We rolled back and forth in the mist. State Road, SR294 through the cathedral ventricles of Heart Mountain. Pumping back and up and forth and down toward SR296. The wipers skipped across the glass, beat by the wind.

* * *

I woke up in Cooke. I woke up in snow. Writhing over how Rand figured out that Granite Peak is exactly 12,799ft tall and not 12,800. Who can fathom the trigonometry of a mountain? Was it measured on foot, Rand? Counted off heel-to-toe? Did you use a measuring stick? The red, yellow, and green kind I won at a family picnic some childhood year? Is that how you ended up with such an accurate and pristine number?

However, it wasn’t the number that kept me up entirely. It came down to the absolute-truth-of-religion that there are no roads leading up to Granite Peak. It exists. In the middle of a green-spotted space. In the middle of Custer National Forest. I sat down at the table with Rand and he showed me that I existed as well. On the line. In Cooke. Rand showed me the distance.

That night I shaved for the fist time in a month. Shaved my whole face until it was smooth and bleeding for the first time in maybe a year. My brother taught me how he refers to his face like map locations when he shaves. I trimmed nose hairs on the Continental Divide.

I sat down on the firm, nylon hotel comforter. The Cooke City Courier was on the nightstand, next to the courtesy phone. It told the stories of the eighty-eight folks who live there year-round in stark black and white.

Nine point font. Absent of paragraphs. The town scroll. Title, written in Scroll. Printed off the HP on the front desk where we stole the last room.

We were too early to be tourists, so we shot pool with the Mountain-Dweller who ran the Super 8 where we stayed. He taught us the tricks of the trade. In the morning he bounced his martyr son on his chest and taught a girl how to pour coffee when all you have are grounds.

At the bar that night I talked to a man named Phil. He was the only gay human in the town, originally from Billings. He told me he has a house there, and I imagined a lover. Billings is on 90, and was on our way when we were planning to adventure in Glacier National Park. Phil told us he came down that way from Billings a week before, and warned that 90 had been closed for the last three days with snow. Said we shouldn’t head North until August. But we hadn’t planned to stay in Montana another day.

The bartender took our order for burgers on a napkin. Some stranger in a Budweiser hat cooked them in a kitchen. We ate and died and laughed. We thought it was a joke that the world’s best burgers were hidden in some lonely town on top of a mountain. We drank the cheapest beer and Phil ordered Long Islands for himself. He asked where we came from, and I told him from some place out East. He asked us how we got there, and I showed him the Road.

Placing a careful napkin on his drink, Phil left our conversation to help a woman with a pregnant horse. The steed was freezing down at a stable with no hay. Phil had a few bales. He said he’d be back, and the woman said her horse would be a happy-happy girl. But we drained bottles watching extreme snowboarding and hunting videos that had been shot outside. People flying on mountains like strange beasts and the man-who-looks-like-your-friend’s-uncle grabbing a dead deer by the head and making it talk.

That dark mountain night ended with us wading through the snow in gym-shorts and hiking-boots. Screaming and cursing the wind and snow. Eternal infants in the infinite and multiplying eyes of the wind. And I never saw Phil again.

* * *

Back in the room, we stomped off our boots. I showered for eternity. Through the steam I hollered a joke about how we thought it would be weeks before another shower. The last ones we stole from a lonely old farmer in South Dakota. He cornered us in the stall and invited us to have dinner with him. We were on the road the second he disappeared. I joked about how my stolen shower trickled so pathetically it could’ve been the old man weeping over my naked body, like some cruel prank. The Spirit laughed and brushed his teeth with mountain water.

We tried getting a signal on anything with a battery that night to let our families know we were trapped in Montana, just atoms away from Granite and Old Faithful. I told my brother about the splinters we got getting into Cooke, my dad about the oil change, and my mom about the consistency of the snow and the inadequacy of our sweaters. That night my brother back East told me I should walk to the top of Granite Peak. He asked me where the Road ends.

* * *

I couldn’t sleep out of ascetic devotion, being so close to the mountain. I looked out at the silhouettes. Dark cutouts in the local universe. I strained my eyes to see the mountain skin in the brightness of the snow. I could see my face reflected in the window. Behind the screen, the fog from my breath congregated on the glass. I turned the radiator up slightly to warm my toes and leaned against the nylon screen to see how snowcapped the car had become. In my reflection, I caught a glimpse of Granite and his brothers curving over my cornea. The mountains reaching, in all of their light, into my brain. I wondered how long it would take to travel from my eyes to their summits. I wondered why, when I can see the mountains on my eye, it isn’t easier to get to them.

Unable to climb the mountain from my window, I turned away and cracked the spine of the Atlas. I sat with the light coming from the bathroom and read the notes Rand had jotted between the lines. I determined how close I could get to Granite with the help of the Road before I would have to abandon asphalt and engine and turn to skin and earth. Walking toward the Granite’s temple.

* * *

I went into the bathroom to kill the light. Settling into our mountain nook under generic covers I whispered to the Spirit, “We’re out here. Trapped in the wilderness and alive.”

The Spirit smiled and said, “I could be a Ghost in these mountains.” And Rand pointed North.

* * *

I didn’t know where the manager’s son had slept that night. I would have crept down next to the crib and read scripture over his body. Raising Atlas high over the small form. No angel to grab my wrist. A tribute to the Road. A martyr for his town.

One day, wading through snow, the Road would call to him, and he would follow.

  • He would take up his incantations.
    He would lead the Nation of Wanderers.
  • _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

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    Night Bicycle Ride in Detroit

    I took a bike ride around downtown last night. That means I stuck close to the people mover— the concrete pall that hangs over our heads.

    On my way toward Comerica Park I watched two cars next to each other at a stop sign. I waited my turn, but they didn’t move. I realized then that the driver of one car was hanging out the window shouting, “You think you’re so tough, huh? You think you’re so tough, huh! You think you’re so tough, huh!?” There was no response from the other car.

    I rode past expecting to hear a pop-pop, but silence fell behind me and I made my way through a tunnel of johnny-on-the-spots and fried-food vendors that were being set-up for the Detroit Ho-Down. I pedaled and thought of all the shit that would transpire on those streets.

    I turned down Broadway and was hit with Jazz. The crazed saxophone player making sweet love to reed and brass. Bending the instrument. Shaking the notes out of it. Squeezing it like a grape, pouring rich wine on the curb. The drummer played with his head down. The guitarist scratched at his strings and smoothness abounded. The bassist sat on his amp and grooved deep and true. I watched, grinning, with two other couples holding leftovers.

    We all clapped, whistled and hollered, and the band went inside to drink their success. One man said it was a pause for the cause.

    I continued on and some high school kids learning to drive laughed at me on my bike as young people, new to cars, are known to do. We slowed to a red light and I looked into them. I rode on, the unwritten freedom of having full control of the machine, and they sat at the light. The only car in the motor city. They sat for the full two minutes.

    I rode up the front steps of the Renaissance Center to see where I heard a man had crashed his car. I didn’t believe it, but he really put it in the center of the main entrance. Not an easy task. There were men working to seal the hole.

    I turned up Woodward and stopped at a fountain and a green lawn. Campus Martius, the center of downtown— or it was before it was moved for industry. There was a party, and a man and a woman kissing. I was digging it all. The water and the lights and the people. It reminded me of Washington Square in New York. A bum asked me for change, and I almost ran him over later and felt terrible.

    I rode home in the freshness of Detroit. I felt enormous and powerful in the shade of the earth and buildings. I rode fast and earnestly; I was happy to be alive and in a city that is determined to rise from the ashes into something better. I rode past the blue toilettes and the toiling people, past their chain-linked fences. They paused confused by my presence.

    I stopped again, and the cars were gone. I assumed their differences were never resolved. I guessed the other driver never thought he was so tough.

     

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    Conquered

    They climbed for a day,
    maybe less.
    The wind in their hair.
    The men laughing.
    One boy brought a flag
    from his hometown.
    They took pictures
    and waved
    at cameras.
    Smiling with giant teeth.

    The boy with the flag
    searched for a place to hang it;
    for a place to write his name.
    He could hear cheers
    from the other side
    from his friends.

    We did it.
    He could hear them.

    He turned back
    to shout
    and lost his footing.
    The flag
    flew.
    His skull
    scattered his name
    across the mountain.

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    Applause for Parking

    When there’s a Tiger’s game, there is no parking in my neighborhood. Period. With the exception of miracles. Like today, when there was one, solitary space right in front of my door. I was admittedly excited. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to park seven blocks away and have to move my car when the game let out at 11.

    I started out a little rough. I might have cranked the wheel somewhat overzealously. Cutting in a little too deep, and all with some guy across the street staring at me. I was embarrassed, so I had to keep going. I waited for that nudge to let me know I fucked it all and hit the curb with my back tire. I leaned forward hoping not to scrape my bumper on the car ahead. But nothing came. No bumps or scrapes. I pulled forward slightly to even out the space, and looked around to make sure everything was in its right place.

    That was when I noticed him. The man staring was now closer, and his jaw was hanging. Thumbs up, jumping, applauding occasionally. This is how all good parallel parking jobs should end. He couldn’t believe his eyes. I turned off the car and started getting my things together, and this guy was still laughing on the curb.

    In my sheepish bravado I cracked the door and said, “That’s how it’s done.”

    “Oh my god man!! I was watchin you and I thought you wadn’t gonna make it! But you kept goin’ and man! Like you’s on a thread man! You just popped it in there!” He stepped off the curb, and at this point I realized that this wasn’t a Tigers fan who was leaving early. This was one of my homeless neighbors.

    “How long you been drivin’ man!?”

    “Umm… A long time.”

    “Oh man, I wish I had a camera! That should have been on T.V.!”

    “Hah, yeah. Well. Maybe not that impressive. I didn’t think I’d make it.”

    “Hey man, listen…” the invariable words came. “Do you have anything you could spare? Change? Even if you have Canadian change.”

    I don’t think I look Canadian, or at least I hope I don’t. But I figured I’d grab a handful of my meter change, maybe an hours worth, and help him with whatever.

    “Thanks man. I’m just hungry. Is there anything else you could spare?” He stepped a little closer to my car, and perhaps my body language changed to become more guarded. He assured me, “I’m not trying to get too close man, I’m not like that. I’m just hungry.” He assured me.

    There’s always the follow up, and I always wonder how much courage or destitution it takes to start asking strangers for money, and then how much more desperation it must take, after they have given you money, to ask, immediately, for more. Is a tolerance built up over time where it simply becomes second nature? Does this man meet so much rejection a day that it doesn’t matter to him to ask again? Perhaps he finds that the follow up is even more successful, that it preys and weighs a little more heavily on a conscience that knows there is more-where-that-came-from.

    “That’s all I have for change man, I don’t carry much of it.” A lie, followed by a truth.

    “That’s okay man,” he sulked as I grabbed my bag and prepared to leave him and disappear into my many walls, leaving him with his none.

    “Is that food!” His face aglow.

    “Oh, um. Yeah. (I actually forgot I had brought that home). Here.” It was embarrassing and sad that I had forgotten I had a meal sitting on my passenger seat while this man had no idea where his next one was coming from, which was ironically coming from my passenger seat.

    “Thank you!”

    “Have a good one. Be safe.”

    We both left the street. Ascending the steps to my door I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d know how to use the chopsticks that were lying across the food in the container, or if he’d just use his hands.

     

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    Collin

    We pedaled through Eastern Market and felt a few precarious raindrops heading home. On the way, the remnants of the Brewster Projects rose before us. We looked up and questioned the sky, and decided we could explore briefly before the rain clouds split open.

    We took pictures of the razor wire that had been balled up in a heap. And I took vertical shots of the places that once held windows. A plain building. Fourteen stories to tell a thousand stories. Blind MOLOCH with a thousand gaping sockets. We rode around dodging glass and rubble. I hid my camera, and we talked to some Canadians who came over from their ruin city to have a peek at ours.

    They followed us for a bit and photographed us taking pictures. We biked on the main road to save our tires. And when we saw the vacant low-rise I turned into the parking lot and locked my bike. The Canadians thought we were crazy and left. I told them we were American.

    We stood outside for a while and I said I just wanted to get to the roof. We took a dozen looks over our shoulders and went inside. Bold this time and careless. Experts at what we were doing. We opened doors that had been shut for decades. Tried, unsuccessfully, to recreate in our minds what these apartments looked like in the 1950’s just after they were erected.

    A mother’s red towel hanging from the sink where she was last seen drying dishes. A record player, singing out that Motown Sound; entertainment in the parlor. We climbed up to the second floor and saw where some had kicked off their shoes. Saw a vacuum that sat embarrassed against the wall, looking across the floor at a task too great.

    I had had enough and made my way up the stairs quickly. Looking for the service ladder that would baptize me onto the roof—where I’d come up choking and smiling—a new man on a building.

    But the service ladder was a dream, and I only found a bed of blankets strewn at the end of the stairs. I looked around for a minute until my cousin was coming up the stairs on tip toes. “There’s someone sleeping in a room on the first floor. We should go.” I looked one last time through the hole in the roof that I’d never make it through and sped down the stairs as fast as I could. There was an overwhelming sense that we had overstayed our welcome.

    Once my feet hit the first floor I heard footsteps coming from another room. I heard a door opening. I lurched out the front door and nearly collided with a man and nearly died. He was white and thin. Wearing a denim jacket and baseball cap. I realized the sounds I heard inside was him coming up the steps and collapsing the wheelchair he held in his hands. I apologized and continued toward my bike, and my cousin came out after me. We apologized for being in the building.

    “You boys gotta be careful going in places like these. People live in here ya know, and they got pistols. ‘One mighta thought you’re rollers and laid ya out.”

    “So, so sorry.”

    “Yeah, no, you just gotta let us know if you’re gonna be pokin around so we know you’re in there.”

    A pause.

    “Would you really be okay with us looking around even if you knew we were here.”

    “Well… Yeah, I mean. It’d be good if you brought some food along with you. You know so that way we’re both gettin’ somethin’.”

    “Absolutely. Well… Now that you know we’re here. Could you show us how to get on the roof?”

    “The roof?”

    “Yeah.”

    He looked around. “Okay, this way.”

    We followed him back inside and he ditched his wheelchair in the first room on the right. Took us to the stairwell, “Moe lives down there, he’s sleeping.” he gestured down the hall. “I’m Collin by the way.” And I shook his hand. We ran up the stairs after him until we got back to the top. I thought he was looking around for a service ladder until he grabbed a chair from a room and placed it under the hole in the roof. He tested it and saw it wasn’t enough. We stood and watched. He went into another room and tore a door off of a closet. He wedged the door with the chair and the wall. It made a ramp to the roof that couldn’t have been more adequate.

    We all stood back and admired his quick handiwork. “You boys just be careful going up and down now. And if you can ever just bring by a bag of chips or anything it’d be good.” My cousin had a bag of chips in his book bag, so we made the exchange and shook hands again. Collin made his way back down the stairs and we ascended to the roof, full and alive.

    We ran across the tar roof, careful for soft spots. We saw our apartment and the skyline. We saw plants growing in the holes. We saw farther than we thought, and pictures became pointless. We traced the roof with our feet one more time and descended back through the hole like Marios.

    I looked for Collin on our way out, but he must have been somewhere eating chips with Moe.

     

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    Vacant Building

    At the end of the River Walk there’s a bike path that shoots out of nowhere. It’s called the Dequinder Cut because that’s what it does. Cutting across neighborhoods and burnt out factory villages. Given up, willingly, to street artists. The civic canvas rides from the river to Eastern Market. A strange park. A community garden beneath express lanes. Cars speeding above, ignorant of the secret garden. A flash of green in the driver’s eye resulting in the mysterious feeling of nostalgia and deja vu until the red light signals reality.

    At the mouth of the Cut is a worn factory. The glass in the windows, cracked almost too perfectly, like a Hollywood prop. The concrete hanging from the ceiling a little too eager to fall. The steel beams fallen a little too hauntingly.

    I had brought my camera for a building like this. Off my bike, I ran around her like a paparazzi; the building my model, my muse. And then the building groaned and we thought we could leave.

    Empty knocking echoing from behind the windows and two white kids poking their heads up over the hole in the loading dock. We stood there on our bikes watching the boys climb out of the dust and nails until they stopped. Like weird animals frozen by seeing us watching them. I asked them about their cameras and they gave me advice I couldn’t heed out of inexperience.

    They told us to go in after them. Said that it was easy. I swallowed and looked at the building embarrassed and nervous as a virgin. Breaking in for the first time. Shifting from photographer to laparoscopic surgeon, careful not to damage anything inside.

    We exchanged places with the boys and prepared to climb through the keyhole. They asked us where we came from on our bikes and we told them. They told us how far they drove and then asked about our neighborhood thinking it was a town they’d never heard of. When they learned the truth that we were from here, that the factory was our beloved neighbor, they backed away unsure. Asked for confirmation again, and embarrassed they retreated down the Cut to wherever they hid their car from the stories of our city.

    When they had vanished so did we. Inside and invisible. Stepping into a ghost. Climbing out of God’s view in the building that sighed through every wall. In the lobby of the loading area, the ghosts played the only notes that still worked on the lopsided upright piano. The wooden keys, rotted and falling out like Washington’s teeth. The notes stuck and rang horrible and forever in the emptiness.

    We explored carefully, finding money. Overwhelmed by piss and graffiti. We went until we could feel the darkness and we could sense the boogeymen of our childhoods waiting in the next silent room. Darkness that the camera flash only confirmed was solid and impenetrable.

    I laid on the floor in the dust, next to the jacket and blanket left by some ghost. The goddess drawn on the wall of the cave; the headboard. Arms extended, catching dreams. The painted Saint watching some stranger sleep here—who would be here after we were done intruding.

    We gasped for air together and nodded, acknowledging that we had all we could take. FATE written on a steel beam, still standing. FATE that would someday collapse.

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    Driving Home, Windows Down.

    I drove directly from work to Traffic Jam in Midtown, Detroit. My roommates were there, finishing what appeared to be filling meals of burger and barbecue. I ordered a stout and checked some articles about the “new” iPad. They didn’t give it a distinctive name and it seemed to make some analysts uncomfortable.

    I didn’t say much at the bar. I stood and looked at the obvious segregation. A room of blacks, a few single white guys, and a couple of couples around the corner of the bar. I couldn’t stop eyeing one beautiful girlfriend, wondering if I’ll ever be willing to blend into someone the way she was.

    I found my way into my second glass. Finally decided to sit on the stool I had been eyeing for some time. It had a coat, but no person. I noted the wood grain of the bar and the 11 o’clock news playing silently overhead. Exhausted, we cleared our tabs.

    I drove alongside my cousin on his bike and we agreed that we would both go bald because of our genes. Our roommate Alex showed up shortly after speeding to catch up on his mountain bike, and speeding up to meet the pavement. It sounded pretty bad, but a few drinks keeps you loose. He got up and we laughed. I left the two behind and made my way down Woodward.

    I had the windows down, and it always makes me feel that I’m driving faster than I am. I sped up to each red light. Sitting. Waiting for the gate to lift. I felt the wind. In some ways, I saw the wind squeezing its way through buildings and narrow alleyways. Pushing its way toward my driver side window.

    There’s something to be said of the wind where we live. It carries our dirt and scent. It carries our screams and hollers. As I drove home with the windows down, I was covered in wind. Buried in it. Led by the power of Detroit, directing me home.

     

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    Homeless Soul

    I was driving and saw a homeless man holding a sign that read, “Please help this homeless soul.” I thought it was an interesting request. How could I, passing in my car, offer anything to satiate this appeal. What value has he placed on the soul. Would a few quarters do the trick? But perhaps more troubling is the thought of a homeless soul. A soul with no home? A soul with no body, with no respite. I wonder if this man felt so displaced that his body for all intents and purposes became useless, that he had no need for it and was therefore merely interested in reparation for his soul, the one remaining, salvageable remnant of his identity. Would it be a kind word he needed, an eager ear to hear his story, or simply the touch of another human being to bring him home?

    Surely I could be a realist and acknowledge that a good meal and warm bed would help this man. I could venture a guess that he’d like a few quarters for whatever provisions. Perhaps I’m an arrogant white-priveledged ignorant yuppie for dissecting the semantics of a homeless man’s sign. But the sign gave me pause. Beyond reasons and reservations I have about giving money to the homeless without question, it made me conscious of the greater issue in play. This man was commenting on the effect homelessness has exhibited on him. He was voicing his discontent with more accuracy than I’ve seen on most crudely cut cardboard signs.

    I felt for him, albeit I doubt that was anything to help. I felt a pang of empathy because how many there are of us with homeless souls. Souls searching for something, for some purpose, for some meaning, for some sign to point us in the right direction. We’re all here, giving up on dreams and inspiration, settling on street corners and avenues, in alley-ways and clean-cut sub-developments. Homeless souls long deserted in youth when we were told we had to stop chasing the muse. I know I could never dream to guess the pain this man has suffered. I know that I’ve had opportunities handed to me that have kept me from a similar life. But is there not a significance, if not a deeper hurt, in his acknowledgement of the condition of his soul? Is it not more raw and honest than many would dare to confess. Is it only in hardship that we come to a precipice where we must voice the holler of our soul?

    I don’t know what would help this man with a homeles soul. I don’t know his story. I don’t know what led him to his current condition. I don’t know where he goes after he leaves the corner at 75-N and Mack. I don’t know how to help with his request, with his soul, with his sign.

     

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    The Poles of Highland Park

    The lower stage
    In Highland Park
    Bursts with light and and semen.
    Poles like scepters,
    Stainless-steel erections of empty wallets.
    Open pussy staring raw into the
    Gaping mouths of skeleton-men
    While unknowing girls line up for George Washington
    In his underwear.
    Wooden penis ready as well as armed on a white horse.
    Beats beating the backs of boys
    Hoping for a dance.
    Hopeless for romance
    She lowers her tits
    Into the cherry glow of his
    Cigarette.

    She removes her amour
    Beneath excited filaments.
    Selling glances from her painted eyes;
    Polishing the poles with dirty cloth.
    Hoping to be paid in dirty cloth.
    Settle-up with the clerk on the panty-line
    Wet with Washingtons
    Drowning in lives unfulfilled
    Filled with mocking mirrors and music

    Beats

    Beating boys
    Off in tenebrous corners.
    Beating back the persistence
    Of glazed grins drooling
    In surrealistic pleasures
    Reflected in endless mirrors
    The angel in light descends the steps
    Like lightning

    –Oh?
    “Hey baye-bee”
    It’s $20 for a hand-job.

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012

    Into the Dust

    I draw your face with sandstone
    On sandstone
    Sloppily.
    It looks like no one
    But dust.
    We laugh
    And you destroy my artistic abilities with your words.
    I am no Monet, VanGoh, or God.

    We lay our bodies down
    In the desert sun
    On dust.
    Waiting for the sun to cool our bodies
    So we can wander home
    In blind darkness.
    So we can drive back to our room,
    On empty
    Going 90.
    Through the black
    Construction paper night.
    We cut through.
    Going fast.

    I stand on the horizon
    As you put your arms out
    Into the wind
    And we holler wildly
    Into the invisible power.
    We cannot hear
    Except the sounds of rushing water
    Cutting deep
    Into the earth.

    We gather the red dust
    In our hands
    We release it.
    It flies.
    It never touches the ground again.
    We are giant egg timers
    With all the time in the world.
    So we throw stones,
    And they too,
    In all their weight,
    Never hit the bottom.

    I stand miles away
    Looking out in a crazed wonder.
    I leap.
    And you cautiously watch
    To see if I too will hit the ground.

    _ Kevin Kaminski 2012