as i approach 36, the mid point of this life (i was born in 1972, it makes sense to me that i’ll go at 72), i cannot let go, ever more, never letting go of any thing, only letting go of people, no, that’s not right, i have a hard time facing, not letting go, but holding on to, admitting and accepting, what an utter failure i am as a human being, what a utter shit i am and always have been, how profoundly disappointed i am in myself and everything i have done.
i’m just barely hang onto my humanity here, i’m just barely passing.

a certain kind of shock. a mourning. a cruel sensibility. you are worthless. you mean nothing. you know nothing. you’ve done nothing. you’ve brought children into the world you do not know how to love, you do not know how to teach. there is nothing extraordinary about you. you should be ashamed of yourself. for breathing. how dare you. how fucking dare you.

leave me here in this puddle, this brain damage, this twisted syringe. there is no hope here, there is no kindness. i am twisted sheet metal and serrated edge, i am maggots feasting on a corpse, i am dead and lurking. my daughter is all life and desire and a frequency of that shatters me. my son is all need and happiness and incessant joy that ruptures a room. my wife is patience, kindness and grace that lynchpins the whole thing together. and i am the tear. i am the disruption. i am its entropy.

cancerous and lecherous, i dream, i dream of nothing, i dream of absolute silence and heat of ovens charring me into ash. i want to be scattered. i want to be forgotten. i want to be the dust that choked everyone i have ever loved.

not dreaming, all surreal, eyes open to this state, near panic. children amok, little time, little caring, dig deep. kindness there, selflessness there, learn from her. beauty, patience, grace. have none of it, no need for it. all grip, all jagged, all bone splinter. but to yearn, to learn to yearn, to learn how, be beauty, patience and grace. impossible but for the desire.

how do you dream this? heat and sweat, sticky: you can never be clean enough. close all the windows, bring out the air conditioners: just barely enough. go to a friend’s house, wade in the pool, set aside your embarrassment, reassure your daughter, introduce your son to the water, admire your wife. ease into this, ease into your age. there is wisdom there, there is comfort, let it come. let it come.

these tired bones, this thick skin. you can train it again, bring it back to breathing. out in the sun, the heat, a joy ride to the park. purely selfish reasons. i wanted to get back to the handball courts again. last time i was winded, trounced by a child half my age. i wanted a rematch, i wanted to flex my muscles, loosen my limbs. an hour until someone else came. one hour of volleys and serves and running after a little green rubber ball i could barely catch. then someone else came, three kids. i offered a one on one, they countered with doubles. i warned them of my age, the years since i played. not a problem. we won the first, 11-9. continued that one to 21 and won that as well, 21-14. they wanted another rematch which we lost, 11-9. not bad old man, not bad at all

sometimes i become so enraged over nothing but i can’t stand to remain dumbfounded: these kids were in a car, with two on the outside, one with a camera while the other was running up to each door and banging on it. i came out and yelled at them and it didn’t matter to the two on the outside, the girl was actually laughing, but one of the kids in the car started apologizing, saying that it was “for school.” after about five minutes, i jumped in the car and went prowling for them, doing some stupid maneuvers (like making a left turn from the right most lane) when i thought i saw another car with a kid holding a camera out the window. i don’t know what i had in mind, most likely to grab the camera and smash it. stupid, stupid, i know, i know.

why do my obsessions always run so deep, so prolonged
i become someone else, utterly and totally, tunnel vision
without care or caring, without self, without ground

perhaps getting off your anger is like getting off on it
you simmer and stew and the world is a brick
you want to hurl
and instead it smashes you, grinds you
until almost all hope is gone, almost all reason is gone
almost, almost
but the spit is yours, the blood is yours, all this feeling is yours
and you stand up, you breathe
and you are home again