beget thee
and i beget thee
everything you have
forgotten, every dream
you blew away, every sorrow
you made, until you are
as the dust and the ash and the cinder
left in the wake of a once great
but extinguished flame
old scrape
scrape, he scrapes. he sits in his chair and scrapes one nail along the arm. the arm of the chair, wood shavings on his thigh, on the floor. everyone once in awhile, he gets his bearings, grips his hands, pushes off and up. he steadies himself, shuffles about. he makes it to the bathroom, the faucet leaks, a trace of rust circles the drain. he pisses, it hurts, he shakes it at the end.
we all shake at the end. we all grimace and bite the insides of our mouths. he still has good molars back there, where he chews it up and swallows because there isn’t enough spit left.
gentle obsession
I am obsessed with wordlessness, the gesture, the sound, the image. I am obsessed with silencing myself, with erasure.
She dances before me, she never dances. She thinks herself too awkward, but there she is dancing. She crosses the room, suddenly, kneels down, kisses me. I ask her, why? Because I’ve been dancing without a partner but you’re here now. You’re here.
I am obsessed with recovery. Words have lead me into and out of trouble. Words have lead me here, with two children, a house bigger than what we need, and a wife from whom I have much more to learn from than I ever imagined.
circuit storm
days when the night fails
works in progress
get your own slinky
starting
all scars
People play at being scarred: they talk of betrayals and disappointments; wounds that are figments of the imagination at best; a lie believed, a trust broken; minor abandonments that have no consequence.
all my scars are literal: stab wounds and burns, cut fingers and a plunged indentation in the cheek, a forearm etched with an indecipherable i-ching.
I don’t need to talk, I can show.