moths, flies, & Krausen

It was a dirty sky with a small moon. The insects and bugs basked in the blurred light. The night chirped and coughed up the days dust while a small rustle escaped through an alley and between a stack of broken bricks. There was a scurrying and tapping of the feet. Creatures, hairy rodents and yellow snails made their way while small souls took flight and fluttered around themselves. Each breath the night gave away sunk life into the burrowed society of the street. She helped the broken, helpless, and unheard become something shiny. She gave a blanket to the night walkers and brought comfort to those who bathed in the moonlight. The night soothed and calmed the spirits, she made pastries with heartbreak, and pancakes of thorns and potholes. She was a marvelous presence with a hair pin stare for misery.

A dark faced disappointment pushed his way through a small half dead patch of grass. His face and feelers made headway. His sunken eye sockets held strong to prevent his eyes from falling to the dust. He looked like a bag of broken pieces and walked with a departed sway. His mind raced with menacing thought but looked like a disaster, a collision of metal to asphalt. He was a vital nutrient to those streets, his pieces stirred the pot. There was nothing to the night without him, he was lost without that blanket. He moved along slowly and steadily with an eye on a wooden crate, the crate that would give him a bench, a rest, a plan. He saddled up, took the world with him and took a seat.

My mind wandered and meandered around. I walked out of the bar and inhaled deeply and then let it go. My night was full of great beer, good conversation, and decent laughs. I only needed to make the long walk home to conclude the story. I stepped forward and stumbled a bit, then took to a straight line toward the sidewalk. The concrete looked cracked and aged. I smiled and made strong strides on top of it and upon it. It felt good to march on something stained with so much experience, with such a storied past. I felt like I was a part of something important, a contributor of sorts. I loved walking those streets at night, finding my way, myself, locating my position and reason. The shine of everything else always found a way to fade and slide away. I stepped off to breathe and light a smoke. I leaned into the shadows and slid down a wall to relax and enjoy my cigarette. The smoke billowed into me and slipped through my lungs, I could feel it in my stomach and fingers. A deep drag at the right time is candy. I sat there slouched and smiling, smoke escaping and surrounding me, it felt good. I felt like a winner, a man down a path with a purpose.

I finished my smoke and tossed it aside. I stood up and pushed my way down the cement path. I could feel the cars darting and the street lamps buzzing. The old buildings sagged and kind of gave up. My focus became locked and my mind blurred, I walked and dreamed. I kicked up some stones and chuckled. I looked to the sky and mocked her, waving the fist and stomping my feet. I suddenly felt my balance leave me, a weightlessness and then a silence. I was brought to justice...I fell hard. When my eyes opened a set of weathered eyes simply sat there and returned the stare. I saw hope and stories and madness.

"Who are you?" I asked.

A simple silence lingered. The air howled, the leaves shook, and the cars continued to pass by. I got up and brushed off the dirt and dust.

I adjusted myself and spoke again, "Hey man, sorry about the clunkering and stumbling, im in deep and just need to make it home."

He stared me through with those sad eyes.

"Well, take care of the evening, sir. I best be going." I returned to my path and took a glance back at the old man. He looked so bundled and cold, chapped, wrinkled and tussled. His face was torn and toughened, he felt rigid but polished. I couldn't fight the urge, I had the gut pull to talk and pry.

"Hey old man, the name is Charlie, pleasure to meet you." I extended the hand.

He slowly reached out and gave me a strong grip. "Im Krausen. They call me the Krausen." he said with a cut grin.

I thought about the name then led forward again, "Why are you sunken in these shadows with the killers and beggers? I can see it in your face you aren't one of them, you're soul and beauty and substance...you have purpose."

"This is my purpose. This is my soul on display, kid. You're beyond yourself with those lines."

"I can see it man, im not beyond the fences. Let me buy you a beer, I came from the bar down the way." I pointed south.

"Not interested, kid. Im not about the show or the lights. I gain my strength from the street. I drink and fuck with the street. I cuddle and learn from the struggle of the street." He paused. "You can join me in this world, but I'm an ugly old man with a rough exterior." His face shifted as he wiped his nose. "I'm bitter and cold, but very much a part of it all. I feed the rats that make these worlds rotate, mature - collide." He pointed to the left and there lied two six packs, one a belgian ale, the other an oatmeal stout. "Take your pick, kid. We aren't as different as you may think. Drink up."

I hit the sixers hard and entered the world of the Krausen. He spoke of reason and remedies, possibilities and hard fought wars. The night barreled along fueled by great beer, smoke, and stories of past loss and love. My mind was filled with twisted circumstance and bloodstained understanding. I salvaged the wisdom, absorbed the bloodshed, then made my way to the end.

-Gaucho