he writes on me a story i live by, of lies & emptiness, of leaving & rage. he writes on me a story that twists my flesh into scars pale and meaningful. i trace the ridges and hear him lie to me again & again. he says, you cannot tell this story, this is my story, this is my story of you, this is how you will live, that is my story of your life, this is my present to you, these words to live by
& i am mad & i am lost & i am the crack in the wall that weakens the ceiling & i am the fissure that bursts the spleen & i am the choke hold around your neck & i am the fly in your coffee grown cold & i am the broken skin around your fingernail & i am the sudden wet sound of a knife leaving the body & i am you being undone & i am the story you still tell from the grave i’ve put you in
Monthly Archives: December 2007
notches
in vying to make a notch in their belts of the other they ended up hanging themselves instead
a wake, awake
a sight for sore eyes, eye sore, sores on the skin, whore, teeth clenched, more, i wanted all of it, site of infection, inflection, seduction, a gnashing of limbs, doors within cracked frames, panting, ranting, raving, craving, separate the nail from the finger, knuckle crack, fracture, rapture, rupture, piercing, wailing, i want none of it, all of it gone, used, abused, fallen apart from disuse, a wake, awake, just wake the fuck up.
resurrection game
with a steady hammer, you nail me on the crucifix of our desire only to saw off my limbs, claw the nails out with clenched teeth & nail me back up again.
this is my pain, you said, struggling with the weight, your breath on my cheek as you drive the biggest nail i had ever seen right through my eye.
& we laughed so hard that townsfolk miles away thought we were howling.
3 choices
years ago i had written, in any given situation immediately three choices:
1.act
2.react
3.or remain perfectly still
the third option, the most difficult of all.
effortless, very own
i sleep without dreaming, a restless pitch into darkness, into the void. i see nothing. i feel nothing. i am nothing. nameless and faceless. disembodied, all my bruises gone, all my scars a figment of someone’s imagination. there is no past, no future, no hope, no despair, no sadness, no fracture, no comfort, no rage, no desire, no strain, no peace. perfect and effortless, swallowed within my very own absence.
wordless clarity
the winter, although not fully here, has been slow moving. it’s been relatively warm, cold at times, but nothing bone chilling, nothing cracking the thermostat like years past. christmas is fast approaching, having snuck up on us like some sort of feline predator and we have yet to scurry out of its inevitable grasp. i awake some mornings with a clarity that i know is fleeting, where i am wordless and without that nervy restlessness that compels me to write. i can sit and have my coffee, smoke a cigarette and simply enjoy watching others make their way through the beginning of another day.
letting go
as we leave class, the little one says, i want to sit on your shoulders. so i hoist her up.
we cross the street & she says, i want to run. so i put her down & she runs, laughing.
she runs away from me, little legs dancing, she runs past our car. i say, where are you going?
she doesn’t even look back. she just laughs & laughs. i ask again, where are you going?
unadulterated glee, she runs even further away without stopping.
is that all there is?
i ramshackle myself the idea with pine cones that fit into my mouth whole and unmolested. i hold you close and yearn the fear even further away than seagulls diving through tufts of my hair for a promise. spigots and pipes make up rhymes that burrow and weave through veins bitter and leave me stiffened. nails polished cracked and weary find the seam of my smile folded and doubled but absolutely lacking. i walk through city streets and landscapes of grass and knolls and shores that stretch endlessly with bones washed clean. into the darkness of hills without stars or a moon to guide us by i tapped a twisted stick before me as my cousin and i cackled our hysteria listening for an echo that never returned. i stifle it all into the ply of cardboard pieces wet with vomit and you laughed, is that all there is?
city grudge
the city is, of course, brutal and unending, pure and ultimately relentless. circumscribed, the city inevitably consumes itself only to reproduce itself. the faces change, the strides, the fashion, but they are all the same, split apart and recombined, a gestalt of the city, of its desires and nuances, of its fickle and harsh method of living. it is infinite within itself, a fractal pattern that subdivides over and over until my eyes water from the strain of discerning the swirls from the limbs, the gesture from the act, the concrete from the skin, myself from it. i was born here. i made love here. i bled here. but i will not die here, i know this as sure as i know my own name. and the city most likely holds it against me.