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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
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I am not much for journal keeping. So consider this less a recitation of daily life and more of an attempt to capture a mood, or moment, as it strikes my fancy. For the easily offended, I should add the disclaimer that there is a fair amount of profanity, sex and/or politics. The words are stuck, lodged uncomfortably between hands that don't touch and the rush of cold air ghosting between lips that won't kiss A stuttering cough to dislodge them, wet and shiny with the mucous secretion of heartache, and they tumble forth, end over end, before you |
You look tired Oh nothing much Same old same old at work Something like that Maybe next time Yeah maybe next time Kept you late again New boss is a ball-breaker So not this weekend either I’ll make it up to you Too drunk to drive home So call a cab I forgot no big deal It is a big deal There’ll be another one She only turns five once You’re never around I’m home all the time In the den or on the phone Someone has to provide I don't want to hear your excuse I don’t want to do this now It relaxes me after work Other men go home Maybe their wives nag less Why is this my fault now Not what I meant to say I think it’s exactly what you meant You think I’m stupid What the fuck are you on about The weekend trips Business The late night phone calls Business I want a divorce What about the kids Now you care What does that mean Nothing |
Demarcating that which belongs to me a certain quirk of the lip human warmth under a cold blanket regret at the umpteenth-and-one time barrelfuls of angry accusations fitful sparks of mirth suppressed bushels of old disappointments From that which I cannot claim a veneer of politeness a formal system of quid-pro-quo an unalloyed pleasure in your company sunshine, rainbows and lollipops faith you mean what you say when you say it to me |
I watched. With blithe spirits carefree steps the crowd moved. They were intoxicating. I ached with the wanting. I joined in forgetting (briefly) about not knowing the steps. I waltzed. The music picked up a tempo shift – I tripped and was left behind. Bitterness outstripped only by weariness I accepted defeat relinquishing the floor to others more graceful. Facing failure I did not dare try again. I cursed the wall separating my will from my desire. |
| At the end of day, everyone agreed: she was only as good as she ought to be. Certainly she danced on the edge of propriety. But honestly, she could have turned out no differently. Blood will tell, as everyone knows. She could hold her own fairly well in high society. Her interests, however, were most remarkably low. The wonder was, everyone said, not that she frequently put on such a poor showing but that she could be good at all, respectable even, if you could bring yourself to forget the tree from whence the apple fell. |
I held in you in my arms all the while tears of salt and anguish splashed the hollow of my neck the sniffled snuffling of your rending misery caused by her defection almost – but not quite – an insupportable obligation that I bore by offering comfort and platitudes in equal measure to soothe the sting of your heartbreak, murmuring soft words of lavish praise to banish the memory of that rejection – and how much more final does moving across the country get, even if it was not solely (or mostly) you that prompted the decision – with my wholehearted acceptance, which made you laugh wryly in between the tears, profusely apologizing for the quirk of fate that brought us to the point whereby your inadequacies and my insecurities as I worked myself to the depressive quick with the minutiae of wifely duties without the benefit of a ring had driven you straight into her arms on my couch, on my floor, on my bed even, though that you deny – and fairly spoken can I even complain when it is your money that pays the rent, your family heirlooms and college castoffs that decorate the apartment, and the only things truly mine fit in two suitcases: some odds and ends, pots and pans, clothes and bedding – and now her leaving, first abroad to an uncertain reception and then back home to lick the wounds inflicted by our rediscovered happiness and the cruel mistress that is our city, had left you once again only with me so you tell me that you love me, the quaver in your voice probably sincere, although perhaps you think I miss the way your eyes now track another one of my friends (and yours too, now, I suppose) whenever she leaves and enters a room or your unnecessary, overly solicitous concern for her well-being I am not so big a person as all that I was unable to resist a dig or five at your expense which you stomached with ill-concealed discomfiture and poor grace – but you were smart enough to take them knowing that anything I inflict on you is payment for what you have done to me continuously, deliberately, many times over, for the last six or seven years – I held you in my arms, all the while biting back tears of salt and anguish not foolish or desperate enough to gift you with them. |
| Fracturing your soul Poisoning it with my flesh Beat the carefree devilry Out of your swagger Grinding away until you are Pride bloodied and heart bruised The arrogance Bled from your smile Cleaving you in twain Leaving you Wide open, naked, for the Hungry world to feast on Shattering your world Smashing the pieces into dust I am dreaming of vengeance Needing you to suffer That which I have suffered I want you hemorrhaging The self-respect You once stole from me Drawn into your orbit Against every rational inclination Every rotation a prayer Every revolution a song I know I should pay you back in kind For sleepless nights and barren days But I forget How I hate you When your grip turns solid Shoving me into the wall Against the stairs Pushing me down on the table Onto the bed Pulling me out of the chair Into your lap Thus you slip past my defenses To rest inside me |
I will not do the obliging thing And go gently into that good night I am bursting with too much rage To fade quietly out of sight I will not slink myself away Nor hang my head with blame I will not fill my eyes with tears Nor gamely die of shame I will not die beneath the shadow’s blight No matter that they wish me gone In their eyes the shame will always be Mine and mine alone I will claim it so And wear it proudly Let it and I serve as the reminder Of things they desire undone I will not do the obliging thing And go gently into that good night |
Your skin tastes like strawberries the tart stickiness of fruit straight off the vine Slathered and dipped in the fluffy sugary buttery goodness of homemade whipped cream Your eyes are alive with devilry when you speak such fantastic lies The sweat gushing from my pores more like over-salted broth than anything else The words a transparent ploy to distract me from the hitch in your breath old man Using what is handy I call you out the challenge issued: boxing glove to the face A light love-tap because we are no longer sparring but nevertheless deadly serious in intention Sir you have impugned my honor for the last time the choice of location and weapons is yours How about a battle axe you ask smirking I struggle to keep my face impassive this being one round I am determined to win Even if I have to resort to low blows like bending over and fiddling with a shoelace that requires no tying On second thought you say stalking me across the ring the amusement still in your voice but subsumed by the hunger I choose lances you growl and when I hit the ropes unable to back up any further you throw me down onto the mat Oh so the gloves are coming off are they I taunt cheeky as ever and fairly thrumming in anticipation Thirty strokes whoever comes first loses you count aloud while I parry each of your slow thrusts By the time you hit sixteen I am ready to explode twenty-one has me begging you to go faster At twenty-six we call it a draw. |
“You remind me of myself,” hard luck and harder living worn into her face each wrinkle with a tale to tell that would make rogues blush, “when I was young as you. Not too long ago neither, no matter what you think.” This, then, was the face of my future, the price of pleasure for a lifetime spent whoring for with cruel men and crueler drink – To believe that would be intolerable. I have to pretend that she does not know ignore what she foretells ignore the small tremors ignore what brought me staggering to her door pathetically grateful that, yes, she has something on hand. Even if it is something I would otherwise never touch because let us face facts, there are degrees of madness, lines drawn in sand with wind, and tonight of all nights, to come home to find an empty closet – well, anyone could be excused for thinking this called for something a little more serious than what I normally dabble in. I am secure in the knowledge: I passed the point of stopping when I wanted to a very long time ago; but that being said I am nowhere near the far reaches of dissipation the folds of her face seem to imply simply because one-for-one turned into one-for-five then one-for-ten and twenty. “Give it to you half-price,” half-price after jacking it up thrice that amount and me the loser many times over. “Word of advice, a pretty girl like you, find yourself a man ‘fore you end up alone.” I thank her effusively as much for the unwelcome advice as anything else. I touch my face with cold fingers the skin there brittle, too old for someone as young as me, and make my way home anxiously. The promise of oblivion is a stronger lure than fear of the future ever could be. |
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