the straining of leaves and I felt like we were in the fifties but awoke to an infomercial of supported breasts and an advanced push bra. it’s all over again and the ache stretches through the bones until it clamors in the mouth, drying up the spit and withering the gum. every action should have a consequence else we find ourselves drunk and disorderly, fumbling our keys trying to break into our own homes.
Category Archives: words
the lies that bind
We are constantly saying things we do not mean: I’m fine, we’re all fine, I hate you, I miss you, I love you. We say them to fill up space, we say them because we are afraid of the repercussions of piercing the veil, of looking behind the curtain. It’s the lies that hold this world together, that bind us into a false sense of security. Because we know there is no wizard, we’ve become too old to believe in magic, we’ve become snugly accustomed to not being ourselves.
anything at all
every confession contains within itself denial: we were all pretending. in the night, nothing helps, every utterance digs you deeper, you are more lost than ever. she looks at you, searching for who you once were. you tell her, this is nothing new, this is who i’ve always been. she whispers, maybe you can ask your mother to stop working, she can help out with the kids…
i never should have told you anything. i never should’ve said anything at all.
against inspiration
If you make it a matter of inspiration, nothing ever gets done, you’ll get no where.
It needs to be a force of will, you to be disciplined, you meed to do.
And sometimes, after a line or two of utter garbage something will come: something wondrous, monstrous, something that will you inspire you.
But most of the time it will be nonsense, it will be incoherent and unsalvageable.
However, ever present, the gnawing still, “one chance each time.”
denial
she says to me,
last year we were like all our other friends, we were happy.
and i cannot stand it, i cannot stand the smell of me, i cannot stand the fact that i breathe, that i can hold the steering wheel and not spin out of control, all the self-hate isn’t enough to end it all.
is it cold?
-here, he said, wiped the dribble of her chin. ok, let’s try again.
-dad?
-yes?
-where are we?
-we are here.
-is it cold here?
-it can be. but not always. mostly, mostly it’s-
-sad. it’s cold and sad here daddy.
-no it isn’t. don’t say that. you shouldn’t be saying that.
-but look. she points out the window, rain sweeps the street, a neighbor runs from their car to their driveway. no one parks in their driveway.
-that’s just rain.
-but it’s cold.
-yes, he hugs her, yes i guess it can be.
needing past
The trick is to run past the rabbit hole, to keep moving, to keep alive. You are not alive when you are alone: you are only breathing. The presence of others, of talking, touching, holding, being needed, this is living. It’s a certain kind of box, a certain kind of definition. And although it eats at you, their needs, their words, their beckoning, it gives you shape, it keeps you moving, keeps you breathing past that rabbit hole, keeps you from falling in.
they get away
matters of confusion from delving into the pain. we all weep wonders. and there the significance: his yowl, her ache, the crack in their mother’s spine, their father’s immutable impatience. how thorny, pricks of the skin, she tousles the sheets, wraps herself into suffocating and roaches crawl across newly stained wood floors, skittering legs that slip and slide with little traction. but they get away, they get away.
safe enough
and it surges up and anger all rage all frustration the incompetence in me the vile and viciousness and gnashing of teeth i yell at the little one i snarl at her annoyed at the intervention annoyed with my loss of control and i barely have a grip on any of it and they all think i already where my heart on my sleeve when they don’t know how much of it i keep in check how much of it i swallow how much of it bounces around in my head but i never feel safe enough to let it all out i never feel safe enough
or me
we are at the worst it has ever been in this country: home foreclosures, bank closings, credit crisis and nothing to shore up the underpinnings of the economy in sight except for the government. in a week, my son turns one. little over a month away we face a historic election where an african american is running against a ticket with a female vice presidential candidate, the first for republicans. my daughter and i rock out to chemical brothers while my son laughs in glee as i bop about. she cries in the car because i talk of how i desperately long for self-oblivion but cannot because of her and the children.
& the world goes round & the world spins & i cannot save them from any of it-
or me