men with broken hearts

i listened to a man speak in poetry tonight.  he was brokenhearted.  bad, like the hank williams song.  this fella hadn't slept in three days.  its beautiful to listen to people talk when they feel so low they don't care what they say or to whom.  there is a brilliant transparency.  straight to the quick.  to the soul.  

i don't quite feel fit to tell the whole story.  

to make it all short, he came to our cottage to request shiz's services as a translator.  he is a friend of john's, an old musician (turns out he's the best wash-tub bassist on the island, but i would not find this out until much later).  he stopped right about suppertime yesterday.   he and shiz talked for a while on the porch while we were fixing.  a couple guys from the yoga center down the road had come over for dinner, so they were there and there was much bustle in the kitchen.  

shiz comes inside and says she's going to go with this fella so that he can call japan and see if his fiance is there.  a bit confused by the whole situation we ask shiz if she feels comfortable with this and she nods profusely that she does.  as i go out and start talking with the guy i remember meeting him the other day.  he'd stopped with a beautiful young japanese woman whom he'd called, 'baby'.  we talk about chocolate mousse for a while.  all big words and hands.  then we see a string of funnel clouds forming and touching down way out over the ocean.  three waterspouts, writhing and twisting in the setting sun.

i say, "see, i told you things would turn around.  you just never know how."

he says, "man, i slept for two hours yesterday and it was complete bliss.  cus i forgot about everything.  then i woke up and a minute later i was like..."

he sags his head.  

today he and shiz return to the farm just as we are finishing supper.  seems like he hasn't slept yet.  they have called japan five times.  talked with the fiance's father.  no word on where she is, she hasn't called home.  their wedding was supposed to be this past sunday.  he sits and tells us the whole story.  it has been an excessively windy day.  

he took shiz out to lunch today and bought groceries for us.  much needed flour and oats.  and a preposterous amount of chocolate.  also some delicious fruit.  but back to the poetry part of it...

so i was sitting on the porch, the wind whipping, the stars blazing above and the heartbroken on the phone with a concerned friend.  the friend was seemingly worried that the guy was going to kill himself, although it wasn't as serious seeming at the time as it sounds when i type it out now.  

"nah man.  my mother killed herself.

i grew up always trying to keep her from it.

i'd take guns from her, knives from her, rifles from her.

one time had to  i walk out in the woods to find her in the middle of the night.

body limp.  overdosed.  had to carry her all the way home.

then when i was 17, i watched her light herself on fire.

she lived for two more months.  after they amputated her legs.

so i tell the devil he's not gonna get me.  every morning

i wake up and i say 

'fuck you motherfucker'

[flicks off an imaginary devil]

'eat my fuckin hemorrhoids.'"

...

listening to this man was one of the single most fascinating events of my life, the beauty of which i am incapable of writing.