A Walk At Midnight(Mekael Shane) Insomnia is my constant companion, more so, she's the witch that has haunted me ever since I arrived here in this land of a million banks. Banks with secret money deals. Deals that often involve other nations and their secret governments whose dealings lie deep in the pit of secrecy. These secret governments are nightmarish because they would employ most any method necessary to keep their transactions private, like say, kill people. Think about how powerful Switzerland is. I mean, how could a country that sits as a direct neighbor to Germany, not be touched in any way, shape or form, by the horrors of World War II? Now that's power.

Since arriving here in this place that's bursting full of sinful chocolates and select very expensive timepieces, delights that are only tasted by and afforded to the wealthy, I have languished between the nearly twin galaxies of sleep and slumber. I have paraded betwixt the planes of figurative imaging and abstract extremes.

I have slept recklessly, without structure, rhythm or schedule, and I am tormented by this sleeplessness. I fight it as best as I can because I am a poet, and the volatility birthed from my battle with insomnia, often interrupts and disturbs my flow of creativity. When this disruption to my creative energy happens, I become like Martin Sheen in the movie 'Apocalypse Now,' particularly the scene where he was losing his mind, breaking the mirror with his fist while the music of Jim Morrison and The Doors blared loudly in the background. Sometimes when I'm awake, I feel as if I'm existing in a dream, unawares to reality, and lacking sensitivity to everything beautiful around me. When I'm at my sharpest creatively, I can tap into my inner lexicon and its deep reservoir, with ease. But when I'm racked and chewed upon by sleeplessness, it can be an incredibly intense and painful stretch to try to use that lexicon. My grandfather used to say, "woeful is the man who can't find peace when he sleeps." Wise words from a wise man.

I believe that my issues with sleep began during my childhood in Dallas, Texas, when I would stay up late so that I could be around the plethora of newly adopted family members who would often come by our home during late night visits. These adopted aunts, cousins and uncles were co-workers of my mother's who all worked for the then forming Dallas chapter of the Black Panther Party. They treated my siblings and I as if we were members of their own families, having fed us and helped to clothe us when money ran low. Now that I think about it, I can honestly say that I had always been around people who were revolutionary in spirit, making the spirit of "fight for your rights" as much a part of my blood, as are the very sanguine fluids that it's comprised of.

Flashing back and remembering my life as a child, I truly loved those late night visits from those quasi family members. I was schooled to the game of survival by those people. Those lessons would steady me during the moments that we were homeless, foodless and without support. During the moments when my mother was snatched away from my siblings and I, and carted off to jail because she committed, because of desperation, an act that she felt she had to do in order for us to eat. She taught us strength, our mother. That's all she could afford to bequeath to us, when she died. She taught us how to survive the worst of life's travails and tribulations, and I am very thankful for those survival lessons.

Talk about lessons. I learned how to shoot dice and to gamble by watching uncle Anthony Bin Wahad when he would shoot craps with some of his buddies down in our basement. Anthony, a then twenty-four year old street hustler, moved to Dallas to get away from the Detroit Police Detectives that wanted him for his supposed connection to a string of home invasions, one of which resulted in the death of a rich elderly man who happened to be home at the time of the break-in. I was taught how to recognize the signs of whether or not a man had money in his pockets by cousin Raheem Jamal, a pick-pocket master, so he crowned himself. He taught me, "men who have money in their pockets, have a funny but goofy walk about themselves, a gay glide in their stride and this walk makes them easy marks." Sadly, I was taught how to shoot a gun by Raheem. One day when I was 8 years old, I'll never forget this, Raheem and two of his friends took me to an abandoned building, which is where they would go to drink their rot-gut liquor and to smoke weed. On that day, Raheem let me shoot his 38 caliber handgun, which was more like a cannon in my little hand. In that moment, my childish excitement was the only thing that flowed through me, but it was when I pulled the trigger that I felt the heaviness of what I'd just done. No, I couldn't put it into full rich words, but I can remember having this sense of, "Whoa! I shouldn't have done that," consume me. I could've easily shot myself or one of them. Now that I'm a man who's a father, and after having been a soldier, where I learned about the totality and finality of weapons, I couldn't imagine mirroring this conduct with my sons.

I was taught how to "spit game" to women by aunt Kalyah Mustafa. Aunt Kalyah was an ex-prostitute turned revolutionary who hated men, but she loved women, literally. Aunt Kalyah, as she tells it, got "turned out" by some lesbians that she served time with during a stint in an upstate New York prison for her role in an attempted robbery of an armored vehicle. It was while caged up that aunt Kalyah claimed to have "tasted the fruit" of women, and she never looked back. These people were my teachers and my protectors. They were fantastic and they were for all its tenses and purposes, family. Those newly found relatives would ingraine into me, their passion for the struggle for socio-economic equality for blacks. Stories about their confligrations with various Law Enforcement agencies. Of shootouts with the Police that went wrong, and of corrupt court trials where innocence and hope, were smartly victimized by vicious torts. They regaled me with their tales of selflessness, and their, "do or die" attitudes toward the black uplift movement, and they also made sure to teach me that the movement wasn't just about, or for black people, but that it included the desire for all people to live free. The common misconception about the movement, is that it was a negative revolutionary disease that coursed through the veins of the nation, but how could that be when the movement taught self-sustainment and self-progression. To the contrary, the movement existed to uplift all who desired to live above the "line", the poverty line that is.

While other kids were being read fantasy driven fairy tales by their parents, I was learning gutter truth driven scary tales. In the midst of the sometimes truths and sometimes lies that they told me, I learned survival politics. Lessons that would stay with me for the rest of my life. Lessons that would ultimately follow me here to Europe. Flashing forward to the now, I am thankful for those lessons. It's funny how the mind can play the games... 'Scrabble', 'Chess' and 'Risk' all at the same time, hopping from each like a harried hare. It's because of this game play and hopping, that I now think without portals, and what I have come to learn is, that there's a price to pay for this portaless thinking.

As is my habit when my mind is restless from the torment and constant barraging of my past, I would gather up my walking tools and walk, usually at night. I'm happy when I take my walks under the shroud of darkness. The darkness cloaks and envelopes me and provides me with camouflage. There's nothing more surreal and engaging than being out amongst the homeless and the dreaded. The tortured wastrels that crowd the gutter-ways that forms the under belly of a city's urban body. I've been around the world and my usual custom when I fall into a new city, is that I would walk its streets so that I can get a real sense of what that city is like and what it has to offer. I was taught by the thugs in the various ghettos that I lived in while growing up that, "to walk the streets, is the best way to learn the truths about a city." There is nothing more telling than that of being amidst what some consider the lower echelon of human existence. In doing so, I guess I feel a fraternal common bond with these people. Nothing is more real than that, and nothing reminds me of how blessed I am to have lived as long as I have, the way walking amongst the soulfully vexed can.

Like I said, before I'd begin my walks, I would gather up my walking tools; my phone, which I carry in case I need to make an emergency call to my people back home in America; my blade which looks more like a sword than a pocket knife; some Swiss Francs just in case I decide to stop off at the St. Pauli Bar, my favorite pub; my mp3 player with the song, 'This City Never Sleeps' by the Eurythmics, stuck on replay as if it were my theme song; and lastly, I always carry my little finger sized Bible. I usually open my Bible and read my favorite scripture, the book of Psalms. Why the book of Psalms? Because David and I are very kindred, in many ways.

On that particular night, I gathered my tools and hit the streets and headed down to the Banhoffstrasse, making sure to take the long route which starts at the Lake of Zurich. Beer in my left hand and a rotund Honduran cigar in my right, I strolled. I bobbed and weaved through the concert of drug addicts that plague the parks and empty hovels that litter the shores of the Lake of Zurich. The Lake of Zurich flows through the city like blood flows through the aorta of a heart.

I slipped sharply through the chthonic clan of lost souls, sifting through the detritus that they formed when they gathered en masse. While strolling that night, I heard something eerie off in the distance. I heard what can best be defined as a haunting bestial caterwaul, that sounded like the shrilled cries of a jungle beast who'd gotten itself caught in a hunter's trap. Strangely, those demonic wales turned me on. They appealed to my inner primitive animal, but still, I had to play it safe.

Those haunting screams forced me to hasten my step because those addicts are more like Vampires. They are the nightbreed who finds solace in this coven of the un-dead. With bodies that flee the ambiguity of androgyny, they look like new age copies of Marilyn Manson; pale, anorexic waifs. I'm at home in these killing fields, though, sometimes I wish that my comfort wasn't as rich as it is there. That night, they welcomed me gladly like they had always done. That night, the air was thick with a kind of, tenseness, so I decided to tread carefully.

I strolled past the cheeky looking prostitutes (some looking as young as fourteen years old) that clutter the downtown streets of Zurich hoping to come face to face with their next victims, or "vics," as they are commonly referred to. They are called that because they are proven to be "vics" to loneliness, sexually transmitted diseases, robberies, and the schemes of the Turkish pimps with their Mafia ties that control the prostitutes. I realized that the "vics" are victimized by their own inner sense of desperation, far worse than they are made victims by any of the groups on the 'Strasse. You can see it on the faces of the "vics," and the whores can smell this desperation as it seeps out of the pores of the "vics" in pheromone rich contrails. Every other week or so, a different "vic" is found naked and dead, robbed of everything, even his shoes and socks. Talk about evil (who steals the shoes and socks from a dead man?).

Regardless of their chosen professions, I've never judged these people. Shit, how could I? I know the un-bearable sting and slaughtering affects of being judged. Just sharing this story with you causes once cached memories to come rushing to the forefront of my mind, but I can't claim victimization without claiming to have victimized. So, I guess in a way, I too am a "vic". Reflection and redemption both comes at a weighty price. Right now I am rendered nearly breathless just thinking about the penance that I'll one day have to render because of my once reckless deeds.

On that night, I decided to leave the Banhoffstrasse and stroll down to a street that is situated deeper in the heart of the gutter. A street that's more like a labyrinth that's filled with both, dangerous dark forces and people who are blanketed under Catholic piety. The street, the famed 'Strasse, which is short for Langstrasse, is a known haven for both the wretched and the devout religious practioners alike. I love it on the 'Strasse. I love it because the griminess is rife, and the crime is ripe. The people who crowd the 'Strasse, often do so in groups. You have the groups of mafiosi, which are naturally comprised of individuals from different nationalities. You have groups of drug dealers, and you also have groups of pimps that mob through the 'Strasse, too. Surprisingly, the duplicity doesn't divide the wretched souls from the Catholic and Christian holy rollers that peruse the 'Strasse, rather, it binds them in a kind of, affliction glued fraternity of mankind.

That night I walked the 'Strasse in a slowed primal creep, animalistic, like a super predator prowling the jungle in search of his next prey item. My head stayed on a swivel, sharking while I progressed along in instinctive predatory and protective modes, both of which would ensure that I would be able to return to my flat safely. Return in one piece instead of me being found stabbed to death, dumped in the Lake of Zurich which was the usual way that the dead are found. This also meant that I wouldn't find myself jailed, locked away from the world due to me having had to kill some foolish person who happened to cross the wrong path, mine. What I would morph into while on the 'Strasse, was an amazing creature, a civilized savage. More than an animal, but less than a man.

Continuing along, I eventually came upon my usual landing perch, an Italian ristorante called Pino's, which is named after its owner. Pino, a once dispossessed Italian who (after being chased out of Italy due to some, should we say, old family debts and vendettas) made a success of himself by means that he chooses not to discuss. Pino's is infamous due to the actual mafiosi who frequent the place, but why wouldn't they, since Pino himself has the look of a "made" man? Pictures of Neapolitan and Sicilian killers cover nearly every inch of paint on the wall, which makes me love the air of the place that much more. During my visits to Pino's, I was taught both German and Italian by the employees, and I could usually learn the latest street news from the patrons, or the regulars who treat Pino's like a home away from home. On this particular night though, I learned a horrible truth. I learned that I was the target of un-official investigations that were being conducted by both the Turkish mobsters and the Italian blue bloods. Talk about a smack of reality to the face. In front of the person who informed of this potentially deadly development, I played it cool. This was the code of the streets. In the streets, a person is taught two things. First, "never let 'em see you sweat," and secondly, "never let 'em see you coming."

In light of this news, I had to check myself and my memory. I had to retrace my every movement since arriving here, making sure that I hadn't insulted anyone, or that I hadn't, unbeknownst to me, challenged anyone. I asked myself if I'd "disrespected anyone in my passing?" My memory however found nothing. My mind wasn't able to pinpoint a moment in which I had "violated" the code. Violations usually end in an ugly death for the violator. A predicament in which I didn't desire to find myself.

It's amazing how the mind works, because for weeks I'd been wondering why I had started seeing unknown faces on the 'Strasse. Faces with overly curious looks about them. Faces of people who had a peer of familiarity about them, as if they had seen my face before, but theirs were faces that I had no recollection of ever meeting. Paranoia set in, and my survival senses became heightened. Time to ride, and time to hide. There had been two bodies found within a two mile stretch of the 'Strasse in a two week period, and both were black bodies. One was found floating in the the lake with multiple stab wounds, and the other was found hanging from a street sign. Things had heated up in a major way. I wondered though, if these deaths were signs that the unofficial investigations by the mafiosi had turned deadly serious, no pun intended, hell, I prayed for the dead.

The concern of these mobsters was, as it was told to me, "why is this nigger from America here, who sent him?" I understand that the Turks believed that I represented a multi-national and Swiss co-operative undercover investigation that was taking place to break up the international sex slave trade, which without question runs through Switzerland. The Italians on the other hand, are just naturally weary and paranoid, and they thought that I might be some hired gun, come to settle old country debts. I wondered if the Italians had forgotten that their usual custom is to not hire blacks for those types of jobs? Sure, they'd hire us to push their drugs, and for the black curtain gambling that they operated, but they'd never trust anything so private and sacred, such as vendetta settling, to a black man.

Me, I usually loved the drama that flowed about the 'Strasse, but after receiving the warning about the coming storm, I decided to make myself invisible. I assumed formlessness, hoping to stave off any potential meetings with Mr. Death. I disappeared into the shadows and like a wraith, I became mist-like. I floated high enough over the 'Strasse to blend in with the indigo hued backdrop of the night sky, which rendered me un-detectable. There I was, floating like a Valkyrie that circled above earthbound carrion that was splayed open on the ground; open and inviting of this Valkyrie's anxious hunger. I existed like a ghost, without form and shape. I had learned long ago, the importance of melding into one with my environment, camouflaged by the ugly truths that blanket the seedy, yet tempestuously beautiful underworlds that exist in every city on the planet.

I am very thankful to my family for having taught me those lessons of survival those many years ago. And I'm thankful to the ghetto Kings who lived the neighborhoods that I grew up in, for teaching me the rules of engagement. Nowadays, I no longer regularly visit the 'Strasse, but when I do, I am usually stealthy in my movements. Quick and jittery like a nervous gazelle who'd found itself out on the open plains of Africa, vulnerable, hoping not to become some Lion pride's next meal. Yes, I'm still here, still breathing and still sleepless, though now I have a new haunt, and I stroll there amidst the shadow filled underbrush, like a panther who only stalks and patrols the jungle under the comforting veil of night. I tell ya, amazing are the things one can see when they take a walk at midnight.

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