“the only real thing you are good at,” he says, sitting and swaying the chair back and forth on the rear two legs, ashtray overflowing, the table pock-marked and scarred.
“I mean the only real thing you have talent for,” he stops dead and straight, “is breaking things. that’s it. nothing else.”
Monthly Archives: September 2007
cuts himself for bugs
he cuts himself open for all to see, to hand out gifts to his children. he parts the skin gently, lest it tears and pushes away the fat.
his right lung is made up of cocoons as if grapes on a vine and he plucks them one by one until he finds it difficult to breathe. something squirms in each one and as one child holds it up to the setting sun she sees that each brims with scorpions.
his massages out his spleen gingerly, slippery to the touch. out from it comes cockroaches of various shapes and sizes, from translucent, where the children could see the process of their organs, to thick and dark brown, almost beetle like.
and as he does this the centipedes and millipedes that he has for intestines snake out of the wound and slither and slide, up and down the length of his torso and chest. the children poke and they in turn come off his body and arch backwards to be petted.
until he is spent. he collects his belongings and pulls from his bag, needle and thread. stitches himself up to their dismay, as if all of this had been for show. once he bites the excess from the knot, he is gone.
cold stone embers
“In too deep and lost in time,
Why’d you have to go and let it die?” -Foo Fighters, “Let it Die”
we get on our knees huddle close to glowing stones
maybe if we cup our hands, maybe if we cup them together, we can keep this fire going
blow something from our breaths into life, resurrect these dying embers
but all i want to do is blow it all out, all i want to do is bring in the cold
i want to match the void i feel inside, i want to swallow these ashes and burn myself out
i want to feel where my heart used to be, i want to remember what i once was
i no longer want the feeling that something has left
or that i’ve been left bleeding
or that i am about to leave
just the steady burn of this tired muscle in my chest
peeling away into winter
even when they fought
even when they fought there was something spectacular about it, supercharged and compelling. to see them go at it, back and forth, one pulling then pushing the other away. he insistent and patient but then calculating and cruel. she outstandingly beautiful in her viciousness. role reversal, sexy rage. as much as they cursed each other, neither would leave the other, or themselves, for dead. locked in an embrace fueled by passion, circumstance and a relentless need that neither one could define. perhaps it was the lack of definition that drove each maddeningly towards one another, without care for themselves, with a recklessness that made them feel all the more real.
false start
up in the night, she found pen and paper, asked for a clock with a second hand, she’s been going through contractions.
and at once i am fearful and jolted, excited and awash with how quickly, how immediate the future can slam into you. i get out of my sweats, wash up, put on a shirt and some jeans and my sneakers. ready to go.
she says, they’re irregular, most likely, as the doctor said, since the baby hasn’t dropped, it won’t be until next week. i tell her to get some rest, but she wants to keep track, just in case, so she leaves on the light. i go back downstairs.
i sleep in the living room instead of the basement just in case we need to leave in a hurry. she says, i don’t want to have the baby in this house.
and because we don’t have a couch in the living room and the loveseat is too short i sleep on the floor and toss and turn along the slats of wood and find comfort in each and every ache it brings.
it’s really gong to happen isn’t it?
a son any day now
closing the 37th week and he’s bound to arrive any day now. i am frightened and wound up. i am excited and filled with dread, everything will change yet again. the 1st week is the hardest, then the month eases out.
but still, i am more fearful now than i was with my daughter. we were different people then, it seems so long ago. and the comparisons between my own father and how i will be with my son. what lessons do i have for him about being a man?
i barely have a handle on what it means to be a boy.
there’s this huge monolith out there that puts pressure on us to behave as our bodies have defined us. expectations based on our sex. roles subtly shoved down our throats. taunts and threats should we tow the line or get out of character.
and there are my sins, the things i’ve done and seen in my life. the women i’ve used and intentionally hurt. the women that in turn abandoned me. the men whose teeth i’ve smashed with my elbows and fists or those i’ve stolen from. what do i tell my son of that?
with ioanna, there was hope in the difference between our genders. with my son, everything that makes me a man today is thrown into question.
i’ve always been stupid this way
she comes to him and kisses him full on the mouth. he says, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she unbuckles his belt, works on his cock. he smiles, she twists him in her hand, almost breaking skin. he winces, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she stands up and slaps him. he laughs, she picks up a rock and shows it to him. he whispers, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she smashes it across his face, some teeth fly. she drops the rock and quickly wipes his blood. he spits, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she cries and begs for forgiveness. she pulls him to the bed, plays with her cunt. he spits, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she turns over, guides his shaft in from behind. she grunts, you’ve got some fucking nerve. he leans in, whispers, i’ve always been stupid this way.
a question of will
“ultimately,” he said, holding the cigarette between his first two fingers and gesturing, “it’s a question of will. not truth.”
he flicked the ashes and drew another drag. “you can’t get it. but you can stick it out, you can choose to face whatever it is, and live with what comes out of it.”
“besides,” he leans back, “this is something you’ve known all along. it’s, what do you call it? your mantra, your way of life.”
the sadness of waiting
the sadness of waiting for him to return to comeback to be here with her here in the dark to keep the dark at bay despite everything despite the years despite his wife and she waits and waits until she cannot wait anymore and then decides to wait some more until it was much too late
and he waits for every opportunity every spare moment to be with her he aches for her he yearns for her but unwilling to break open his life afraid afraid that the spell would be broken if he was ever to give himself over what would he do then when she left what would he do alone in the dark and when he does she’s already gone the pride keeps him from saying something more anything about it anymore
until he sees her again years later and the itching is there again but neither one says anything about it and he wishes things were different and she wonders if ever she was truly done with him and he sees her eyes and cannot stop staring and with him staring she cannot help but wonder if only she waited a bit longer
and they barely touch in the bookstore as if afraid although he thinks of the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips and she thinks of how he bit her neck and moved his hand between her thighs and it was never just about sex with them some other thing that waited for them on the other side and he wishes he was there again in her apartment from years ago in the dark where they were caught between staying and leaving and waiting anything other than where he was now
despite this she smiles and kisses him briefly on the cheek and walks out without looking back like she always did and it was that one lack of a gesture that kept him from giving himself over and she crosses the avenue she returns to her life without telling him she had eventually married without telling him she still thought of him from time to time but sometimes it was bitter and sometimes sweet without telling him she had grown to think of him fondly but it was difficult at times because of the damage the waiting had done
despite this he smiles and kisses her cheek briefly and pauses because something was different he could no longer imagine the feel of her lips which struck him as odd to suddenly forget because even in his dreams he could still taste them and here he was letting go again watching her leave all pleasantries aside not having told her that he was alone so utterly alone in the dark and he was still waiting for her if only in his dreams to tell him she would have waited a little longer if only he had asked her to.
let’s play a tune
and every time he plays with her body it’s a new kind of tune, like something climbing up out of the depths, ancient and old but utterly new and wonderful. he feels her skin across his own like some harmony that reverberates back and forth through time and shakes the cobwebs off his eyes. and when he reveals her pussy the scent of her fills him up, hardens him and urges him, demands of him to inspect this fruit even closer, to ripen it, to open it, to taste it, to quell his hunger and sate her own. and when she takes his prick and massages it he feels an excitement that is at once illicit and natural, as if they were always meant to be like this, hand and mouth on cock, hand and mouth on cunt, eternally. and the chords strike even harder, sharper when she eases his dick inside her, where the sound gets lost in her throat but just escapes and the music plays havoc with him as he becomes lost to their rhythm. until he cums or she cums or they cum, it doesn’t matter, something gets lost in the translation, some thing gets translated between them, some satisfaction that is primal and comforting, staying within her, her staying with him, their bodies still close, breathing in one another. and it isn’t as if he can ever have enough of her, the ghost echoes of desire shoot through him in the night, in his sleep when he believed he already had his fill, finds himself wanting again, wanting to play again a tune that starts from within him and all too soon ends within her.