the all-at-once, breathing everywhere, where have i been, the all-at-once being, cannot make sense of it, breathing, remember to breathe, did you breathe before this, before taking this on, did you forget to breathe, where have you been breathing, stop breathing, stop breathing like this, pushing it down, push it down, the hand on the chest, holding it there, pushing, holding it there, hold it there, breathing, have you breathed today, hold that one breath, everywhere, the all-at-once, one last breath, one last hand pushing, push it down without breathing, crush it down, crush this last breath, without stopping, turning away, stop turning away, stop breathing, one last time, let it go, let it go all-at-once, never let it be all-at-once, just be all-at-once, at all sides, the swirl everywhere, where can i go, further than this, where further this breathing, how to breathe further than this, without stopping, how do i go on without stopping all-at-once?
i have left myself
i have left myself utterly speechless at a time when i cannot be, when i need to account for myself, for who i used to be and what i’ve become.
there is little talk of what lies ahead, it stretches endlessly, stark and barren, everything i imagined it be, without rest, without end, without hope.
i have left myself on the side of the road, arrogant and bruised and it is still not enough, i have not been beaten enough, i’ve yet to be beaten enough.
all i can do is pick at the pavement, fit my fingernails between the cracks and wonder how much effort would it take to bury myself under there, how much pressure can this amount of cement and tar and traffic exert on this corpse of mine.
and would it be enough, it was never enough, it can never be enough, will never be enough, how to measure it?
enough.
the only thing left to do
sometimes the only thing left to do is put your head through a fucking window and let your weight do the work for you, let whatever fucking warmth is left within you run out, feel that fucking release, that lightheaded sensation of a severe dip in altitude, let all that fucking guilt and shame and anxiety wash out from under your chin, find a fucking way to just end it all to be done with it, just fucking be done with it, done with what’s fucking haunting you and all the damage you’ve done.
what you’re good at
“the only real thing you are good at,” he says, sitting and swaying the chair back and forth on the rear two legs, ashtray overflowing, the table pock-marked and scarred.
“I mean the only real thing you have talent for,” he stops dead and straight, “is breaking things. that’s it. nothing else.”
cuts himself for bugs
he cuts himself open for all to see, to hand out gifts to his children. he parts the skin gently, lest it tears and pushes away the fat.
his right lung is made up of cocoons as if grapes on a vine and he plucks them one by one until he finds it difficult to breathe. something squirms in each one and as one child holds it up to the setting sun she sees that each brims with scorpions.
his massages out his spleen gingerly, slippery to the touch. out from it comes cockroaches of various shapes and sizes, from translucent, where the children could see the process of their organs, to thick and dark brown, almost beetle like.
and as he does this the centipedes and millipedes that he has for intestines snake out of the wound and slither and slide, up and down the length of his torso and chest. the children poke and they in turn come off his body and arch backwards to be petted.
until he is spent. he collects his belongings and pulls from his bag, needle and thread. stitches himself up to their dismay, as if all of this had been for show. once he bites the excess from the knot, he is gone.
cold stone embers
“In too deep and lost in time,
Why’d you have to go and let it die?” -Foo Fighters, “Let it Die”
we get on our knees huddle close to glowing stones
maybe if we cup our hands, maybe if we cup them together, we can keep this fire going
blow something from our breaths into life, resurrect these dying embers
but all i want to do is blow it all out, all i want to do is bring in the cold
i want to match the void i feel inside, i want to swallow these ashes and burn myself out
i want to feel where my heart used to be, i want to remember what i once was
i no longer want the feeling that something has left
or that i’ve been left bleeding
or that i am about to leave
just the steady burn of this tired muscle in my chest
peeling away into winter
even when they fought
even when they fought there was something spectacular about it, supercharged and compelling. to see them go at it, back and forth, one pulling then pushing the other away. he insistent and patient but then calculating and cruel. she outstandingly beautiful in her viciousness. role reversal, sexy rage. as much as they cursed each other, neither would leave the other, or themselves, for dead. locked in an embrace fueled by passion, circumstance and a relentless need that neither one could define. perhaps it was the lack of definition that drove each maddeningly towards one another, without care for themselves, with a recklessness that made them feel all the more real.
false start
up in the night, she found pen and paper, asked for a clock with a second hand, she’s been going through contractions.
and at once i am fearful and jolted, excited and awash with how quickly, how immediate the future can slam into you. i get out of my sweats, wash up, put on a shirt and some jeans and my sneakers. ready to go.
she says, they’re irregular, most likely, as the doctor said, since the baby hasn’t dropped, it won’t be until next week. i tell her to get some rest, but she wants to keep track, just in case, so she leaves on the light. i go back downstairs.
i sleep in the living room instead of the basement just in case we need to leave in a hurry. she says, i don’t want to have the baby in this house.
and because we don’t have a couch in the living room and the loveseat is too short i sleep on the floor and toss and turn along the slats of wood and find comfort in each and every ache it brings.
it’s really gong to happen isn’t it?
a son any day now
closing the 37th week and he’s bound to arrive any day now. i am frightened and wound up. i am excited and filled with dread, everything will change yet again. the 1st week is the hardest, then the month eases out.
but still, i am more fearful now than i was with my daughter. we were different people then, it seems so long ago. and the comparisons between my own father and how i will be with my son. what lessons do i have for him about being a man?
i barely have a handle on what it means to be a boy.
there’s this huge monolith out there that puts pressure on us to behave as our bodies have defined us. expectations based on our sex. roles subtly shoved down our throats. taunts and threats should we tow the line or get out of character.
and there are my sins, the things i’ve done and seen in my life. the women i’ve used and intentionally hurt. the women that in turn abandoned me. the men whose teeth i’ve smashed with my elbows and fists or those i’ve stolen from. what do i tell my son of that?
with ioanna, there was hope in the difference between our genders. with my son, everything that makes me a man today is thrown into question.
i’ve always been stupid this way
she comes to him and kisses him full on the mouth. he says, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she unbuckles his belt, works on his cock. he smiles, she twists him in her hand, almost breaking skin. he winces, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she stands up and slaps him. he laughs, she picks up a rock and shows it to him. he whispers, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she smashes it across his face, some teeth fly. she drops the rock and quickly wipes his blood. he spits, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she cries and begs for forgiveness. she pulls him to the bed, plays with her cunt. he spits, i’ve always been stupid this way.
she turns over, guides his shaft in from behind. she grunts, you’ve got some fucking nerve. he leans in, whispers, i’ve always been stupid this way.