6

Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope

There was no beer in the cooler this morning and I couldn’t tell you where it went. It’s just gone. Don’t know who stayed here last night. Don’t care who stayed here, my things are in order, my life is still going on, these things happen, but the beer is gone.

Undying journal, sadness this morning and not joy pervades me. Upstairs in 5-C is some pounding stereo that is not soothing for me. Tears are in my eyes this morning. Tears are in my eyes.

No beers. No coffee. No food. No teddy bears.

Here I am, young and infinite, tears in eyes. A cigarette would be nice.

Another dream last night journal, this one so close to the secret I strive to uncover. I was in a city, some East Coast waterfront city, with lots of quite old churchy folk settling down for it all. In the middle of this, some young buck wild fucky-like kids start to make there quiet way through the scenarios and streets. They were on to me. I could not understand why, but I kept running and blending in with the crowd wherever I could to melt in and dissolve.

Then, coming onto the docks, a ferry boat arrived, began to unload auto after auto. Lastly, a lightly guarded rig pulled out and a crowd began to gather around it. I followed and watched the back flap open wide to see what was inside the truck.

And what the hell, it was Pope John Paul II.

He was being wheeled out, ever so slowly, by a sentry-type guard who looked more like a circus worker than bodyguard. The crowd gasped in amazement and silence befell everyone. Il Papa was a frail man, he held his head in his hand, and he did not want to be bothered. All the while he was murmuring silently to himself or to God or I don’t know. They lowered the rig as the crowds stood there and watched. I began to fear the violent youth around with this gentle figure so loosely guarded.

My heart was racing and I ran up to the Pope. I pushed through the crowd, I knelt down in front of him, I kissed him and I wept. I wrapped my arms around him, but instead of him embracing me, he sat there, head in hands, silently blah blah blah to himself. I held him closer, but he slipped out of my arms and fell onto the ground. What have I done?, I thought. I ran away before the guards could catch me.

And there I was again, in the crowds, in the transience, in the maelstrom, the violent youth all around, pointing at me, whispering. I was sweating and ducked into an alley. I hid out. Finally, I managed to get to the other side of the alley, where there were the crowds again, only this time they were smiling and walking together, families and community members, all dressed up and off to this big cathedral church.

I don’t like churches.

I don’t like them at all, journal.

But in this my dream, I decided to go into the church and see what the big fuss was about.

The sound of singing filled my ears as I entered. Pews were filled with people singing and smiling. The cathedral smelled of person and age. I looked left and saw him, Il Papa, sitting there on stage, on a throne, holding his head in his hands and mumbling still. I began to cry and said, “Forgive me, forgive me!,” and ran up to him, embraced him so terribly hard, like a vice around a mouse, I wept and wept. His face grimaced in pain and he crumpled to the ground in a huddle. I stopped crying, filled with horror. What have I done?, I screamed inside. I grabbed the throne to steady myself, feeling faint, and the crowd stared at me blankly in disbelief. I started to think, ‘Such a place of belief for such disbelief’, but then realized what I had done and stumbled slowly and defeated out of the church.

Two blocks down, shuffling the dust, the violent beat-up fucky-type of youth came upon me, just one of them. He smiled at me in the alley I had found myself in, by the trash dumpsters, and pulled his knife on me. I let it all out. I flew upon him before he had his way with me, grabbing his knife, plunging it in his chest, and out, and in and blood was all over everywhere, his heart was exposed and I was making a mess of it, and he was gurgling and blank and horrorstruck. I got into him really good and then startled myself awake.

I don’t want to hurt the Pope. I don’t want to hurt him at all. ///