like magic man, i make it like magic, i spin spaghetti out of membranes and cotton candy from spinal taps and check it out jack, check out the vicious way i slide between the here and how and you all fall apart like dust bunnies caught up in the broom of my vehemence.
the broom of my vehemence, like an angry maid on adderall.
All posts by manny@savo.us
tasty
three fourths finished a lifetime ago and petals like icicles gouged in the eyes and all i see are pretty oranges bursting between the teeth and nothing gets stuck in the vein, nothing gets jammed up, we all flow, the blood flow, no traffic here onto the curb, even our intestines slide into the sewers like fat on a buttered skillet.
the shaping of it, of him, of you
and the shaping of it, of him, of you, leaves you wretched, makes him cringe. how can i be this way, how can he fail like this over and over? how do you do it, day in, day out? does he feel no shame?
his daughter in your arms, you child, my child, i’m broken my little girl, he’s still trying to figure out how to be. do you want him to? do you really know how to live? can you fix him?
the fold over
come back to it.
come back to the bleeding? no, no thanks.
no, come back to this.
i don’t think so. i don’t think i can anymore.
why?
because all writing is desire, it is longing, it wishing for things that are not there.
so?
so? and there’s too much here. there’s too much here to abandon and there’s nothing to want.
there’s nothing missing?
no, there isn’t. there’s simply too much living to be done.
that’s horseshit.
no, it is-
it’s utter horseshit and you know it. you’re undisciplined and lazy and afraid. cut the bullshit out and come back to the fold.
3 days to live
man told, perpetually, “you have 3 days to live.”
the first time, he blows it with his wife, his family, makes no plans, just grieves-
but he does not die yet: he’s told, “you have 3 days to live.”
have no other
this echo within me, of something else, somewhere else, someone else. the ebb and flow of it, haunting, so close and yet so far. who was i, who am i, can i stand to be what i will become?
for years i’ve shed off one thing after another, stripped myself off in pieces dangled by skeletal fingertips, bare and cracked.
somewhere along the way i died and was reborn. and this new skin is hard to come by, treacherous to wear, but i have no other.
baby boy
the passion of you, this bright smile, this wonder, you embody joy and innocence in a way that they write about in books.
you’ve turned two and it’s as if i have seen you for the first time. the last couple of years have been difficult for us as a family and i hope, with all my heart, that in the same way you forget your pacifier when we’ve secretly taken it away from you, these dark years eventually are forgotten as well.
We move
We move. In and out of each other’s lives. In and out of our own life. Lose focus, stumble. Here again and the pressure. To stay still. To keep moving. I am always moving in and out spaces impossible to keep still impossible to slip through. Always too much to say in too little a time and a part of me screams to never say anything at all.
the first question, again
where to begin, is always the first question. but the second?
where have you been. no, where have i been.
living, the little boy in the dark says to me, you’ve been living.
unhappy with yourself, racked with guilt, but living nonetheless.
he then adds, it’s not where to begin anymore.
it’s, where do you go now?
We dream
Of this, we dream, over and over. Some
Imagination, the wounding of scars, lilies pried open and sand
For nectar
Over and over, mechanical loop
Of soft tissue and gears
Bloody wire and the aching of teeth, as if
Swelling the tongue brings a measure easily
Defined and succinct
As is praying, over and over
Makes it true
And licks it all clean