the glorious wonder of who you are. what a specimen, what a fine product of battered egg yolk and ruthless semen. he raped her you know. he raped her and beat on her afterward blaming her wanton ways for the quickness of his prick and there you were conceived after much fucking and haranguing and spittle and desperate might. and look how manly you turned out to be! how grand! an exquisite reflection of your old man, a bloated funhouse mirror. he would’ve been proud son, he would’ve been so very damn proud of you.
inifinite mourning
there is not enough mourning in the world for the person i could’ve been.
the remainder
with the move from classical to modernist and post modern art, what matters is no longer the final object, the result, but rather the process. for example the work of jackson pollack: splattered paint on a canvas is not riveting, it’s not monumental, it’s not even the point. the man was an abusive, raging alcoholic. with his work you are not looking at a thing of beauty, but rather the remainder of an event, the aftermath of something cathartic and pivotal.
that painting is just the ash of something that once burned brightly.
ghost(s) I
again i was without my shadow. she traipsed ahead of me, bounding stairs and i was amok. all purple and superfluous, an extravagant limb, vestigial appendage. and when she reached the top of the stairs, she smirked and i was left haggard. exhausted, i grasped the final footfall and she knelt beside me, my shadow and i, and whispered, “i shall become you in the end, with nothing to follow, not even the sound.”
thought fence
a thought-fence. one of each, for each strand, hair strand, broken, follicles run amok. a tattoo stain, henna porn, in the apocalyptic rain of chernobyl. born again, in the chemotherapy of christ, the placenta of the lamb, over and again, over and again, hospital walls with spittle, horrific globs of i-was-once-here-but-gone-too-soon-too-soon. carry over the one, but then the other, and two by two we go into nefarious places holding two by fours and nothing more, shit house. and to think, to think, once more and again, like loose teeth for a fairy.
alien terrorists
aliens have lived amongst us since roswell. treaty with us, but general population doesn’t know. fear of wide spread panic, racism, etc. aliens have to be registered. 2010, extremist faction want to disrupt. liason to bureau of alien investigations, nyc homicide detective team up to stop plot.
coping
i am still broken. no i’ve finally broken myself. i’ve shattered myself. i’m ruined amongst the pieces of who i used to be and i’m trying to fit the pieces together. i am trying to make sense of myself. i am trying to be.
when my daughter hurt herself, i told her i had becomevery scared. she said that i didnt sound very scared. and how can i tell her? how can i tell her that it’s all despair and madness and cacophony? how do i tell her that i’m coping.
what an ugly fucking word. what a joke i’ve become.
stupidity but mine.
there are things i let go of everyday. trivial things. monumental things. i let go. my uncle, onset of cancer. my father, mystery stomach pains. family i’ve estranged myself from for decades at this point.
and then there are things i cannot. things i should know better and let go off, but i won’t. i can’t. call it pride, call it what it is: stupidity, but mine. mine.
this must be me
is it because my life has been so trivial, the despair i feel over nothing worth mentioning?
this is partly why i resent therapy, or the idea of it: it rationalizes, trivializes, minimizes.
perhaps that is unfair. perhaps my perception of things has been unfair.
sometime i feel like it’s all been a joke, that there is, beneath the surface, a cruel and grinding reality that is waiting to chew us all up. or rather me.
it’s been a long time since i’ve made any sense whatsoever. or anything beautiful for that matter.
i look in the mirror and it’s all beast, it’s all naked aggravated thick flesh.
i hear myself speak and i cringe: why did i just say that? it’s as if i am dreaming a horrible nightmare and i am callous and impatient and i am screaming from within this isn’t me, this isn’t me, but it is.
deep down inside, this must be me.
at least one thing
at least one word. at least one thing.
ioanna and mikey, rough housing and wrestling and oh the feel of them like the promise of sleep that always escapes me, the weight of a promise i cannot fulfill but keeps me grounded, keeps me close to the shore.