A L’Enfer Baby Doc -2014

In 1971 Baby Doc Duvalier inherited his father’s dictatorship over Haiti.

At twenty years old Jean-Claude was the youngest ruler in the world.

His power was enforced by the dreaded Ton-Ton Macoute. The cadres of these sunglassed henchmen tortured and killed thousands of people over the decades with the support of America, Land of the Free. Jimmy Carter tried to back away from the ruthless regime, but the Ivy League CIA’s hatred of communism preserved the Duvalier’s lock on the most wretched nation in the Western Hemisphere. The family controlled all aspects of life and commerce. The sale of Topsiders shoes, Rawlings baseballs, and Haitian body parts enriched the family’s coffers. Baby Doc married the most beautiful woman on their side of Hispanola.

Michèle Bennett Pasquet from the mulatto elite of Haiti.

The wedding cost $2 million dollars.

The fete was paid by the people of Haiti who were earning less than $200 a year.

Revolution was impossible.

The CIA helped the Ton-Ton Macoute suppress dissent.

Hundreds of thousands fled to Brooklyn.

Pope John Paul II called for change during his visit to Haiti.

Porte Au Prince was a transport center for cocaine.

More money to fuel the repression.

Baseballs were sewn tight. More hone runs were hit in the Major Leagues. Ivy Leaguers loved Topsiders. Ronald Reagan’s CIA transported arms to the contras in Central America. Mayans were massacred in Guatemala. They had nothing to do with baseball.

The people rose against the Ton-Ton Macoutes. Baby Doc attempted reform. Too little too late for a people too abused by his power.

On February 7, 1986 Baby Doc left Haiti with his wife for France. She looked so happy to go, especially to Le Sud de France.

Michelle took a lover sur le Cote d’Azur.

Her 1993 divorce beggared Baby Doc according to the Press.

They were telling lies.

His family had Swiss banks and Swiss bankers never lie and they never tell the truth. A 2004 Global Transparency Report said he had over $300 million in Geneva.

That money belonged to Haiti.

The people.

The Swiss said the money belonged to no one.

They are super thieves.

Baby Doc remainded dead.

The money is gone.

It exists as a binary-column in the database of a Swiss bank.

All that murder and mayhem for nothing.

I expect little else from the banks.

They always get what is theirs.

Ton Ton Macoute a Geneve.

Allez-allez.

The Smell of Eucalyptus 1986

In June of 1986 I came back from France to write porno scripts with an old girlfriend strung out on H. North Hollywood, the ground zero of the XXX film industry. Obviously I was not thinking straight, but I had confused lust with love, especially since Sharon was a porno actress skilled at faking orgasms.

One rainy night Sharon drove her big gas-guzzler over to rescue Harry Reems for an OD. She called 911. the dispatcher said EMS had been to that address too many times.

“It’s a waste of time,” said the dispatcher.

A junkie herself Sharon knew better and on a very rainy night we drove over the Hollywood Hills to a Laurel Canyon cottage. The nocturnal gloom was thick with the scent of eucalyptus trees. The door was open. I recognized Harry, having seen DEEP THROAT once in a Times Square theater. We were in time to revive Linda Lovelace’s co-star from death. He groaned, “Stop slapping me.”

I sat by the bed, as she rummaged through the desk, closet, and under the mattress without finding a stash. Sharon left to score and never came back.

The rain worsened to a deluge. I was going nowhere and settled into a lounge chair with a blanket over me. It was cold and damp. I was going nowhere.

The next day Harry woke around noon and asked, “Who the fuck are you?”

I explained, And then threw me out. My parting shot.

“You have a small dick.”

I walked outside. It was a sunny day. Then they all are in LA.

Solar Flare May 2024

Last week the extreme electromagnetic radiation flares burst the 93,000,000 from the Sun to Earth in less than nine minutes creating intense Aurora Borealis over a swarth of North America. Friends driving to the Canadian border were reward with the most dynamic cosmic display in a decade. I saw nothing from the roof of this Brooklyn brownstone, but I felt the energy washing over the planet on its way to the farthest reaches of the Solar System, although my hair did not stand on end.

I was treated Anonymous texted this

OH 7001: Night falls swiftly! Darkness takes hold.

My response.

The day lengthens in May.
The night retreats.
Flowers come to life.

ps I embrace the night
Maybe this evening
The Northern Lights
O’er New York

THE LITTLEST BEAR

Quinton fished the Casco Bay from Peakes Island.

The other day-fishers know his boat.

A 1985 Seaway 22-footer running the Drunken Ledge,

The Cod Ledges,
Big Ridge, and the Tanta’s ‘punkin bottom’.

Pollock and cod in the winter.

All in sight of the Ram’s Head Light station.


Quinton 56.

Fishing all he know.

Not speaking much,

Except to the fish and his boat

THE LITTLEST BEAR.

Forty-one years of fishing

Still has all his teeth and hair.

Once a stud to the cougars at Billy Ray’s Tavern

They thought he was worth one night.

Not no more.

He smells too much like fish.

On a sunny January day Quinton trailed two long lines

Over the blister bottom of the Klondike.

A good haul of cod to sell at the Portland pier.

This his life.

The wet of the sea, the smell of fish, and…..


A three-foot wave broke o’er the bow.

The sun low off the shore.
Going to get dark
Maybe black with the night.

No other boats were in sight.

Wind from the north.

Heavy clouds on the flat horizon.

Casco Bay not flat for long.

Heavy seas ahead and behind.

Still plenty of fish on the lines.

Only two options;

Haul in the catch or cut bait and head to the shelter of the nearest island.

Inner Green.

A frigid Atlantic wind skates across his skin.

Something bad coming from Down East.

Bad maybe wicked.

“Fuck it.”

No fool Quinton cut the lines.

Time to outrun the weather.

Maybe not enough time.


Throughout that evening
The storm got serious.

No one at Billy Ray’s Bar seen Quinton.

Not asea nor ashore.
They say nothing.

Saying something was bad luck.

They drained their PBRs and watched the Bruins.

At midnight the tavern door opened wide.


Quinton.
Drenched to the bone.

“Rough ride home. Two Jamie’s, a ‘Gansett.”

He eyed the bar.
Four other fishermen on the stools.

Dry.

“Get these landlubbers a drink too.”

Quinton says nothing else.

There was nothing to say.

A lifted finger.

Another round.

As many afore closing

Vernon knew his limit.

Lazarus II

Two summers ago in the black night of Brooklyn
I spewed several liters of blood into the bathroom tub.
After wiping the retch from my face
More blood surged from my body.
Liters’
Something was not right.
Something was very wrong.

In a taxi
I crossed the East River.
To NYU
Inside the emergency room.
The staff took one look.
A scrum of nurses, technicians, and doctors sped my body into ICU.
Many hands stripped my body nude.

“Sir, can you hear me?”
A young intern.
Nod.
“You are bleeding to death from the varices.”
“Varices?”
“Small stomach fissures. Do you have family in New York?”
Head shake from side to side.
“Do you want to be revived?”
“From the dead?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”

An oxygen mask on my mouth and nose
“If you have any prayers, say them.”
“An tsíoraíocht.”
The Celtic word for eternity held no meaning to Christians.
Their only afterlifes
Heaven hell or purgatory.
The hiss of gas.
Propofol swarmed the life out of this life.
Dead in limbo.
White light.
Nothing, only white.
There was something else.
Eternal nothingness times zero equals zero.
This was death and I was cool with that.
And then I was back.
Life.
Here.
Pain.
The Here not my own bed.

The pain mine.
This had not been a dream.
I sucked air.
The other patient in the room.
Not breathing.
Never again.

Hospital.
Nurse.
Doctor.
An earnest doctor.
“You were very lucky. We stopped the bleeding.”
“I like luck.”
“But I have bad news.”
Plenty of bad news.
Cancer, cirrhosis, the looming threat of death.
I was 69.
Alone in a hospital bed in a city of millions.
Bad news.
It was all right
I had had a good life.

I was not dead, still alive.
But straddling eternity. No fear
I had died before.
Car crashes. Beatings. Broken hearts.
Whatever didn’t kill me made me wish it was dead.
This time same.

Why fight for life?
Why not give up?
Morphine made surrender easy.
Free five days later.

My friends saw death in my eyes.
My children in Sri Racha prayed
That I will live forever.
People believed in life eternal.
I once believed the same.
Not now.
I had had a good life.

New England, New York, California, England, France, Germany, Hawaii, Quebec, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, China, Nepal, Tibet, Kenya, Tanzania.
Friends by the thousands.
Two family in Thailand.
It was a good life.

I was not dead, still alive.
But straddling eternity. No fear
I had died before.
Car crashes. Beatings. Broken hearts.
Whatever didn’t kill me made me wish it was dead.
This time same.

Why fight for life?
Why not give up?
Morphine made surrender easy.
Free five days later.

My friends saw death in my eyes.
My children in Sri Racha prayed
That I will live forever.
People believed in life eternal.
I once believed the same.
Not now.
I had had a good life.
And there was still more to come.

Months passed.
A year and more.
A new hospital.
Cornell-Weill.
Jaundice, weight loss, pain.
People thought I looked like a Rolling Stone.
Keith Richards.
Ahead my last days.
Then a miracle.

Yulemas. An available transplant.
That night back in the OR.
The room cuts to black.
Clear light.
I know Limbo well.
No gods, no heaven, no hell.
Nowhere. Nothing. No one.
The white light of death.
Gone again.
To
London
Smithfield Market Slaughterhouse.
My body on a chopping block
Entrails scattered across the wood.
Then back to life.

Antiseptic smell.
Clean sheets
The machines beep. None followed a Max Roach beat.
A nurse gave me water
Taste of Limbo.
Nothing.
This not my body.
A black scar marks the execution of the old me.
Yet I am alive.
Bracketed by pain.
But alive with another soul within me.

Paula. My donor. Forty years old, 300 pounds.
I love her and she me.
Old School Lazarus II.
Where’s the morphine.

Back from the eternity of white propofol extinction.
No Maine, no South Shore, no New York, no Paris, nor Thailand.
No permanent record.
Tabula Rasa.
Not a trace of the Here-Before.
Just Paula and Lazarus II
Wicked scars.
Never dead before my time.
Only dead to the time before now.
Now a gray winter sky o’er Brooklyn.
Time eternal, because there is no time in nothingness.
Only Nothing Paula and Lazarus II.
We are not too lonely together.
Living forever again.
Remember from whence thee came and where we’re going.
Ashes to Ashes not.