“He’s going. Soon.”
,she says this and I can no longer feel any remorse in her voice. She is stating facts, she is reading a shopping list and not so far off from being bored.
It’s all receding, even the random sensations,
-blink of eyes, taken for granted for so long, still happening but completely behind my back, eyelashes and lids no longer speak to their upper or lower counterparts, going about motions, silent and thus invisible,
-tightening of scrotum with simple shifting of thigh
-tension of the muscle atop shin as leg extends and toes point away, stretching
-tongue flattening against roof of mouth, tip first, upward, forcing saliva back, releasing tongue and throat ripples downward, so as to swallow
-holding of spinchter and gentle mumbling of bowels resisting movement, shifting
-even air entering, brushing along lips and passageways, through trachea, and wet at some point in lungs, until diaphragm, detached and foreign, squeezes, and rush of exhalation, thrusting, expanding softest parts, just edges of nostrils, and out. Breathing.
It no longer registers, despite its effort to continue. How refreshing it must’ve been to catch myself breathing when I had least expected it: the act, in itself, so selfless, without any demands on the mind, seeing chest or stomach, dependent on my position, rise and fall, so delicate, so determined,
it all fades from me, now, the sounds that once emanated from me, in me, of me internally, even the memory, thin thing that it is. It takes much concentration to think of those things. To perpetuate, at least, functions that despite good intentions, I no longer appreciate as having come full circle, completed, with enough inertia to go ’round again.
I might have already left and last synapses are convulsing, simply. That the precisely last sensory input, of her, somewhere near, speaking,
“He’s going. Soon.”
was never near, nor input, nor precise. She might have said more, but the brain, in its dying spasms, retains only those words for some odd purpose, or defect in a switchboard between left and right hemispheres: a scratched record, skipping and repeating a fragment. Of a larger context. The truth of the matter is, at this point, so far from even the waning auditory capacities, it is impossible to discern nor imagine otherwise, or likewise, in any event.
It’s all receding, drifting what have you, but for glimpses of effort, to remember how to be alive. For just a bit longer, beyond the finality, focusing on the mechanics, so little left after so long, without any pretext on approaching Death. Chances are great that there will not be an opportunity to introduce myself to Death properly, it will suddenly be in my home, without formalities, rude and polite. On this I simply can not be accurate, I will already be gone just when I thought I was still going through the motions.
No. That’s not right. Wishful thinking. I am still, and she also, a chair and desk bolted to their positions on the floor for fear of thievery, I wouldn’t mind or disagree. It’s her voice, now and before, not post-exit, or mortem, or the last smoldering.
My sight has completely blurred beyond what it was before, which was not much to note. Rain on a window, wet and dripping, now completely opaque, where all has vanished but for the numb and vague colors. When it was ‘sight’, and recognizable as such, it was useful enough to encourage honing: onion peeling, every crevice expanded and regarded, volumes of notations on the horizontals, vertices, variety of angles, and depths, interlockings of the such. I should say, if ever I had a pen at hand, or a book, there would’ve been volumes of examination. Just lines and curves and dimensions, without attention to color. I never practiced any interest in hues and brilliance or measures of the such, not in the blood, most likely, though the sight of my own blood brought on quite a stir, or alarm, depending on my mood. This is neither here nor there.
Reminiscing. Before even my eyes left me, or just at the failing of, seconds perhaps, everything else had deteriorated, or in the process of, close to finish, exhausted I believe, she was sitting at my bedside. How terrible. She concerned genuinely, how pock-marked. Just then, it all left, the seeing and sight of her, and that was immediately comforting. In hindsight, however, filled with regret. Her contortions are the last thing seen, etched in the skull as it were, an image stared at for far too long, ghostly or ghastly. Either one, but I prefer mangled, there in the darkness, nothing else to remember her by, in the last moments. I can recall other things of her: the soft part of her thighs, her sturdy back, her neck, but it hollows itself out further and empty even in the attempt. To start again, in spurts, without content beyond spontaneity. Not her on me, no. No memory of that. Rather, with me on her, the localities of a what of me that touched a what of her, the sensation of me in her. It had been slow reaching her, or actually, to convince her to reach me, I was never too far. The implication is that she was lazy and did not want, no. I can’t describe it. Nonsense, even after decades. That is safe to say, we had decades and bed sheets and flowers and coffee grinds and grips and sweat, but the beginning was difficult. Now she does not leave me, it was a habit of hers, leaving always, at the onset. Any more than that, to analyze, would be pure speculation, as it was, and nothing more of it. It is gone, or has been, from the moment I felt her insides,
-how warm and tight and unexpected, the first time, suddenly hesitant between sheets, we knew what we were doing but we were doing it to each other, quiet disbelief and laughter, bright teeth smiling
-her rump high and back at a curved angle rising, in the shower, rivulets of water down her sides, back, off her breasts, cascading, her arms bracing the wall, head back, slightly turned, her eye on me, hair dripping, my hands on her hips
-quieter times, no words spoken, solely the eyes, across the length of the kitchen table,
it all recedes in the distance, I can feel things remove themselves, and yet I am not alone, she is here. I can no longer feel her hand as it was on my own, before that also flickered out, nor see her, only the memory of her distorted features, frayed, at my side, vigilant. I am relieved for the recent change in her voice, the lack of concern over the inert quality of me lying useless. It comforts me beyond imagining. This body no longer pains me, even with catheter in the urethra and needle in my arm. So withered it was when they slid it into the vein.
The shades are dimming, one by one, the stars , like matches, I am not alone
Walls shrinking or melting, I am not alone even as the world becomes soundless
all anchors have been raised
not even her voice not even an echo
i am not alone at least i am not alone i am not alone i am not alone
i am-

head heavy
eyes anxious,
jitter
burn in joints,
thirsty
skin tone
sticky
wishing
to be something else
irritated
by the sunrise
wondering
how to be
the sound of a voice
that (one) hears
with ankles crossed
and hunched
by the pressured elbow edge
and the meaty palms,
on table
sweat in finger
/crevices
writing
naming ethereal thoughts
to fit words
interesting theory amongst this,
writing another day.

“Come with me, take my hand”, he said
arms outstretched, eyes alive.
“I’m scared, I’ve seen this all before.”
she shook her head, but was in awe,
“Forever is a lie and promises myths.”
he kneeled before her
sun on his lips, valleys in his heart
touched the ends of her hair
feeling as if this breath, was his first
He could almost
“No not this, this is old, yet new,
I was one, but now two,
I’ve seen what lies on the other side
It’s been too long, don’t hide.”
Taking him in her arms gently,
a hand wrapped around his neck
ever cautious, afraid the touch
might be real should she cross into the light
afraid that she’ll, one day, drop again.
He could almost
“No not this, this is old, yet new,
I was one, but now two,
I’ve seen what lies on the other side
It’s been too long, don’t hide.”
So with silence they dance
movements careful, hesitant,
eyes closed, unsure, they know
somehow with each step, a tear dries.
A spin, a dip, a giggle, a brush of lips.
They could rewrite the world,
if only they’d let go.
He could almost
A pause and frightened
he looks and sees and knows
“This, look to see, is what it means to me.”
And she forces herself to open eyes
that have been too bruised to see.
She notices time has passed,
line have been laid hard onto his face
but he turns her to view castles,
blue nights and shores side by side.
She can feel the sun’s warmth on her
and for once, she can breathe.
She clasps his hand tightly,
“How long, for how long were we lost
inbetween broken dreams
living in fogs and past lies
running in circles, to find a beginning?”
Hand on her cheek, he replies,
“Too long, long enough, not long at all,
Here is where we begin, we have this
and today and maybe tomorrow.”
Smiling, laughing, arms wrapped around him
resting her lips on his neck, she whispers,
“Always tomorrow and our lives.
Come with me, take my hand for,
for this was old, now new.
We’re one, us two.
You promised me the other side,
let’s go in, let’s not hide.”
He could almost.

there is a little man
in my mouth and he’s saying,
“hey little girl
get the fuck out of this
little boy’s face;
he’s seen too much
of little girls like you lyin’
to keep themselves drinkin’
in a bar like this.”
the girl cries
and the little man scorns,
“cut the crododile tears, will ya?”
there’s a woman next to me
saying, while drinking scotch,
“tape that mouth of yours.
your little man is supposed to
get you in trouble
like getting a chick
knocked up, or fucked up,
or get you cheating on your wife
(you probably have one,
or you wouldn’t be in a bar
to avoid her)
but that’s the little man
that’s supposed to get bigger
in your pants
when you see a little T & A,
not him”,
she pointed a finger
at my gums.
the little man
blew a fart on it.
“listen cunt-”
,the little man said,
“-a man’s gots to do
what a man’s got to do
and screwin’ bitches like you
is not what he’s-”
,he grabbed my bottom lip,
” -gonna be doin’.
you see, this boy here
he’s got promise and hope
and a college education
plus a career to boot
somethin’ you losers
know nothin’ about.
he is kind of stupid,
still wet behind the ears
endin’ up in places
like this, can’t help it, he’s a man
with all sorts of crazy ideas
and some maturin’ yet to do-”
,and he stood at the edge
of my teeth and screamed,
“so get the fuck out of here
you sad gold diggin’
model posin’ tired ass
good for nothin’ but a smile
and a fuck for the experience
of some unknown as-of-yet S T D
visit at the clinic.
take that face of yours
that’s been lifted
one-too-many-times
outta here
with the rest
of your sleazy self.”
the woman threw her drink
in my face and left
as the little man in my mouth laughed
and then,
after a few minutes
,burped.

raining a place,
into an empty
being unfulfilled
perhaps unrealized
this yawning of a somewhat
or
would I be
without my anger?
flowing into certainty
of whims
like violins dressing up
frustration.
rust scabbed windowpanes.
the unseen
rinse does unclean
,not seethe, the pointing out
of dust.
stop, go
rig-a-moral, pony
tell a story, is it gory
or a skirt?
flirt amongst the dirt.
don’t accept rides
from brides
of bribes,
is that a cradle
does it come in my size?
a fingerprint
on the mirror once told me
who I was.