With cigarette burns up and down her sleeves I watch her tell me she cannot wash them away. As hard as she tries she cannot despite the scalding water and the countless bars of soup. I run myself ragged to hide them, but they keep coming back, I’d unfurl my skin to keep her pristine for once.
Monthly Archives: February 2009
All these
All these things become merciless, a beating to a wake, her hand on the wheel, a fire hydrant exhausted before a blaze. I hold myself together with stems and twigs and patches of bark chewed over. A spindle of wire for twine taut over and under and over again between tooth and gum and ankle and wrist. I would prefer origami if my body wasn’t so coarse.
test
we are testing,
testing the valves, the values, are you sure enough, have you paid the fare,
should you be here?
ground etch
I wear this tattoo for all the right reasons, that there is ground inwhich I cling to, there is something I stand on, there is a light at the end of this tunnel.
love of a girl
He fills it up with the love of a girl, renewed, skinned knee, wasn’t she so pretty, almost in pigtails but the skirt was filled out too well, a women in sheep’s clothing, vicious bite, he enjoyed it, the deception, he would have to admit it, the plethora of scars were proof, even when he walked away, beaten and bruised, he thought of her tenderly, a newly fashiond scab to be picked and revealed, renewed wound for the road ahead.
After The Rain, con't
Mel opens the door, umbrella stupidily still in his grip. It was a habit that annoyed her, carrying it to the mud room before the back porch. The irony was of course that when they bought the house she insisted on the laundry room that was originally there be converted into one. “Just imagine,” she would argue, “the children dropping off their golashes and raincoats there and their soft socked feet prisitne while they scattered about.” Slowly he descended the staircase.
Where were the children?
After The Rain, con’t
Mel opens the door, umbrella stupidily still in his grip. It was a habit that annoyed her, carrying it to the mud room before the back porch. The irony was of course that when they bought the house she insisted on the laundry room that was originally there be converted into one. “Just imagine,” she would argue, “the children dropping off their golashes and raincoats there and their soft socked feet prisitne while they scattered about.” Slowly he descended the staircase.
Where were the children?
ubermensch
You need to do the things that sustain you, that surpass you: if not at work, then everything else. Read everything, study, go beyond, be beyond, allow yourself to grow out of the expectations of your place. Explore, write, listen, reach. You have arms boy for a reason: they are meant to grasp as well as throw away.
intermission
Days go by and not a word. No, that is not true, always words, incessantly, mantras, ghosts, whispers, in my head, always, I am never alone, always speaking, listening but hardly writing. Letting the body rest, feeding the soul.
after the rain
He had come in, the house was dark, empty, still. Where were the children?
Sopping wet on the wood floor, squishing across the hallway into the dining room. His umbrella was still in his hand, much good it did him. He could barely make out the garage door when he turned into the driveway. Still he could hear, like a ringing in his ears, the insistent drum of the rain against the roof.
Where were the children?
Rain off his chin, “Hello? Jonathan? Caitlin?”
Not even Molly, his ex wife’s german shepherd, with her lame leg and half bitten ear. He used kick the dog when the neighbor’s weren’t looking. Now, over the years, particularly this summer he had grown attached to the mongrel, almost found her regal. From the dining room he could see into the pantry where they had set her bowl, full and untouched.
Where were the children?
Often driving home through the seasonal thundertorms that ripped through Newport he thought of her, her ability to turn from lover to ghoul in an instant.