the silent revelation, i have seen you before. stop dreaming of this, the scars, the scars are simply too much, too thick, too tired: i feel nothing. and as of consequence we move but are immobile, we drink ourselves hypothetically but do nothing. we strive but do nothing. here you are, incompetent and lost. here you are, dancing in a fun-house mirror clean and spiteful. here you are, alone with rags for skin. here you are, gone into the oblivion you so desperately wanted
Monthly Archives: February 2010
what impotence!
is this what we should do, on the days when we’re together and she can be with the children? should i abscond and disappear into this, this difficult thing that is so very frightful and alluring and impossible? ah the madness of it, to want so desperately but not be able to, what impotence!
christodoulos fellas, feb 7 2010
and i cant even reach out to your children, so many years have gone by, grown so far from your son, never really close to your daughter. i always felt the odd one out, always thought i saw a slight shift in their gaze when i opened my mouth and spoke to them truly, as i was, as i had thought they knew me to be, unencumbered. but at your wake and at your funeral i realized: we are never unencumbered, we are always uncomfortable and bothered and hindered, we are never quite right in our own skins.
your son, in fragments, told me of feeling your presence in a room so strongly that it frightened him out of his wits. he told me, watching the casket being closed was so difficult because it was truly the last time he would ever see you. out of nowhere between the plates of served food afterward, he whispered, how memories of you came and went in his mind, how he couldn’t grasp any one of them tightly enough to keep in focus.
all this in the face of your death, all this lost in a day of stoic grieving and formality. i never quite know what to make of these things, i never quite know what to make of myself, i never quite know how to be to fix it, any of it: his life, your death, my sense of obligation and detachment, or the odd place where it all sits awkwardly waiting to be resolved.
so damn proud of you
the glorious wonder of who you are. what a specimen, what a fine product of battered egg yolk and ruthless semen. he raped her you know. he raped her and beat on her afterward blaming her wanton ways for the quickness of his prick and there you were conceived after much fucking and haranguing and spittle and desperate might. and look how manly you turned out to be! how grand! an exquisite reflection of your old man, a bloated funhouse mirror. he would’ve been proud son, he would’ve been so very damn proud of you.
inifinite mourning
there is not enough mourning in the world for the person i could’ve been.
the remainder
with the move from classical to modernist and post modern art, what matters is no longer the final object, the result, but rather the process. for example the work of jackson pollack: splattered paint on a canvas is not riveting, it’s not monumental, it’s not even the point. the man was an abusive, raging alcoholic. with his work you are not looking at a thing of beauty, but rather the remainder of an event, the aftermath of something cathartic and pivotal.
that painting is just the ash of something that once burned brightly.
ghost(s) I
again i was without my shadow. she traipsed ahead of me, bounding stairs and i was amok. all purple and superfluous, an extravagant limb, vestigial appendage. and when she reached the top of the stairs, she smirked and i was left haggard. exhausted, i grasped the final footfall and she knelt beside me, my shadow and i, and whispered, “i shall become you in the end, with nothing to follow, not even the sound.”