Thursday, October 11, 2012

10/2/12

10/2/12 

I will never accept being cared for, let alone love
As a valid input until my carcass is reborn
The body in which we betrothed was sluiced
In frayed pork defiled basted for blood sausage 

I view askew from the perimeter of sentiments
Adjacent like a hypotenuse to the angles
Of a wife, a husband and a daughter
Asunder bombing theorems into pick-up-sticks 

Dumped out a can I remember playing with
On the floor at my grandmother’s house
She always requested ice cream and
My grandfather always went to the store and got it for her 

There was an arrangement there, a balance
A nuance to the difference between favors, appreciation and slavery
The geometry is defunct in unilateral termination of mathematics
Of a corner of the triangle reversing to open up lanes to another highway 

Towards new construction, old vehicles, pick-up trucks and hay bales
Rotary club meetings and gender terminology to captain industry
The old blindness imitates a rodent scurrying in your father’s house
Gorging on Gouda to insulate from the politics of rum and daiquiri shop cigarettes  

Blasphemous to admit to myself that a heinous compartment
Misses you, misses the ease stitched into the fabrics of bed sheets
The routine of dinner or escaping hurricanes like merry escapades of youth
Holding to the cape of heroes reflecting yellow sun like the radiant barrier  

I requested to install in all five thousand square feet of that roof we built
To save on energy costs over a lifetime of ownership
Together with the porch, the sun could never mug our home with its punches
Always refraction, a touch away from a touch  

Four years later, you there with him, me here a mile away in the same town
I cannot look at; I cannot grow in; I am a plant with shuddered roots incapable
Of descending into this soil as if cypress in a desert or cacti in a moor
I am dying alive; I see this modest suburb cul-de-sac wanting it to feel akin  

Yet no; all it is, is down the road from that porch, and that garage that was as big as a house;
that double-slab, the pool in your parent’s backyard to a driveway
Of car seat clicks and stow-away scenes forever etched like sandpaper tissue paper
To wipe tears from ducts for eyes without lids blinking incessantly, yet
 
Appearing to the world as those of a dead man, the cauldrons of my soul
Gargle for an apology that will never bubble, yet still a speck of me is thirsty
Parched and when I think of that word I am embraced by the audacity  

Of your father’s alcoholism, of his jokes about light being the color, not the amount of rum in his cocktail at every restaurant, gathering or outing our hybrid family ever attended; how our daughter now uses that word parched and why;  

How your clan must joke about it; laugh as if it is some ecclesiastical performance of vernacular befitting Webster; that the group is someone that bit more academic, rather than like children playing hide and seek, avoiding the confrontation of calling thirst the cravings of an addict or scratching the itch to placate the demands of the centrifuge of family conflict; that there will be none as long as the drink is in hand and what is, will be let be and what is will be embraced as profound rather than desperate or sad 

Yet I am timid of wanting to stay in proximity to all of that in this basket landing pad after the past four years of shrapnel and dust; to venture onward now seems like a drain of so much energy; of electrifying the disposal and grinding so much ease in knowns, of knowing nothing, yet feeling like this is living, knowing it is now preferring the numb over the excruciating battle to actually participate where another may one day crack  

The levee of where I wallow and shield like a coat rack of parka’s in New Orleans, that it will never be that cold, no matter the day or hour or mention of weather anomaly, some plants can survive because that temperature will never be achieved at such longitude and latitude on the planet, absent man fucking with the ice caps,  

I confront that I may never be cured inside; this detestable sensation to second guess my own valuation of the operations of love and trust are forever mismanaged to a state of disrepair, dysfunction and disillusionment.  I want to overcome this urge to be alone, the hollow holy of the cocoon, the glow worm of my television and empty other side of the bed, knowing four years and I still cannot settle in the middle or the left hand side, only the same as if a decade of marriage could redirect the placement by will alone  

I see women as offering more detriment than benefit; the risks outweigh the gains in every respect the effort expelled will be repaid in a charge card for tolerating my presence I will receive a latent invoice; maybe not within the first year or two or three, but at some interval the letter will come in the mail from a lawyer informing me of the interest owed compounded monthly in the sight of my children become a picture I have to remind myself of because I am no longer permitted to see them daily 

This comparison and mathematics is an unbearable wolf clenched to any approach that seems in the smallest bit reasonable affording me the luxury of solitude to avoid all such economics for a management plan confined to masturbation, Sundays to watch football, and direct decision making authority of what is left of my bank account; trust is not an issue it does not exist  

I am constantly putting myself on trial
As if my nine and a half month wait for court
To have a chance to raise our daughter is unending
A repetitive sitcom episode, re-run 

Inside the justification that I am an honest man
Good, a satisfactory parent, perpetually
Drenched in the oil spill of your departure
Plug nothing 

I planted a butterfly garden with our daughter
We journey our Adventure Time, we discuss
The feelings like an age-appropriate audience Oprah show
Never be enough, Skype in the camera frame 

Refuse to view, repartee over home work
On who she plays with at recess, knowing her insecurities
Knowing her strengths, this contagion may never be contained 

See a friend stand for me
I will give what I have from everything
Lost employment, change careers,
Here’s a hand, get the hand up out there 

Why I do it; question myself
Who am I saving; selfish bastard
Analytical second guess hell
Black hole of devil tongues;
Never normal, never done 

Cancer cells of you still lurking in me
Cut the whole fucking organ out,
Yet still it bleeds,
No clue how to love anyone again 

Gut this mutant tangential concern
That will permit no more than friends
Trust, motivations, risks, litigation
Procreation, confrontations, numb the morphine
Coat the tongue 

Unsure because I kind of like this
Taste the death, toe-tap lightning
Stay alive for digesting regret 

All the women look the same, like vomit
You have infected the totality, me, them, the Earth
The nausea is ubiquitous 

I don’t want to be happy; I want a reason to be happy
There is no pill , Glix 13 

You ruined what it means to me to be a father, to be a husband
You bastardized my greatest joys
I used to look forward to interactions, the outside world
All replacements are moot, virulent reminders of possibility rotting  

Before my eyes as if any portion of possibility were even possible
Cascade into a ravine of obliteration, toss the totality into an event horizon
That expectation and resignation have entwined into a massive nothingness
The urge to call, to ask, to surface is claustrophobic  

The ceiling, the lawns, the street corners invade
Like worshipers of a foreign religion seeking not to convert me
But to make me witness their revelry, burning at the stake is preferable
To absorbing the waves of social like a red tide 

Maybe one day I could confront, outside the battlement
I could aspire and live as a husband, as a father again
In my new family, still guiding our daughter but affixed anew
Letting go and letting in, slowly possible; I want it so 

So I will do my best to make it be; in time.

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