After some thought I've decided to post only my postcard fiction here since it seems that no one else is really interested in publishing it. So all bits of writing will be fairly brief. These bits of prose will be changed on an infrequent basis
The concrete cracks, it's reduced to sand and gravel in spots as I walk. Such a frame should not leave a mark but the boots I wear are old. They've been through the world, through its people, through the role of disciple. And so when I walk, creating a trail of shallow divots in the sidewalk, leaving a subtle cloud of low laying dust, it is obvious that there's a reason for my stare. I look at nothing, marching with an incessant control of where I place my feet, unconcerned for what I crush for these steps are not mine. I have god rolling around inside, I can feel it in my palms where they swell and reach out to the tips of my fingers and in my hand, collecting, is a force, blue I imagine. I want to say god but just maybe this rage that vibrates under my skin and pulls at the fibres of my muscles is different. Aroused in such a way, I border on a clenched jaw and I could devour anything, anyone. I am the son.
Where I stand doesn't matter. I
have the feel of shatter in my love-caste bones. In the darkness with dark
breath I am trying but. I try to remember I am the son. It doesn't seem
like enough. I have a need to cut the world down with the razor edge of my
stolen wings. To see even for lack of light and concede myself to the
night, this happening of heart, where I could clear-cut the problem and
send a message of my own. Maybe it's not right, maybe I am serving
something else but it feels so good, when I crush them one by one. I am
the son.
I was born when the skin of fruit was torn and the nectar,
meandering, ran down fingertips, curling around the forearm before
tainting the earth. That was birth and I am the son.
I am the son.
I have the fame of it as I am stopped in the frame of it. I want you to
look at me, believe all I say, because all I long for is a better place.
To shed this skin and rip off this face. I love, it's true and still I
must suffer this abuse of self. The fragrant denial of a smile as I tear
into the heart of it, licking up every bit of my own worth. I am the son.
How many times can I say it, before I understand how it is that I stand,
claiming something forbidden, something lost, something hidden. The
concrete cracks regardless, humiliating me with the fact that these boots
are not mine. And as they clunk against the sidewalk, allowing a round,
hollow sound to resonate from within them, it's all I can do to maintain
my balance. This is wonder not yet full.
Oct. 27, 2001
its like a lick up my back, starting at my side then curving around as it slides in between the impression left by my ribs, gliding along the edge of my spine, tempted to retreat once at my neck and release teeth, dry yet gleaming, suddenly drawn out and pressed. Its like a tease when you speak. your words are made up of breath, made up in a stare and your eyes are on mine, speaking like you have your tongue on my wrist, undoing every second thought of what I really hear when you stand this close. I take the fragments from your sentences. hang on words like always, forever because they taste different when I hear you speak them. its like you have your tongue on my wrist and your lips are almost touching, becoming a kiss. it takes forever to find myself in the fragrance of you, it always takes forever, but I'll always be lured. the cool tip of your nose gliding over my skin with your bangs dragging behind in shadow, to remind me that something is left and it may be permanent.
May 19, 2002
lovers
She ripped the sheets from the bed, leaving me laying there, suddenly naked and exposed to the air that became tainted with her look. The nail file that she had been using only moments before on the corner of the bed became a potential weapon that she continually stabbed into the mattress for some reason that I was, I expected, to blame for. She stood with her chest heaving and looked into my eyes where she could find a motive and then into her own, without seeing, and found an excuse. I lay pretending to be surprised, and sincere, and listening, and in pain, refraining from covering myself, open to abuse and criticism. She moved towards the bed, dropping the file and straddled my thin pale body at the chest like she was giving birth. She wanted to invent a new me on the white shreds of cotton. A new me who could still remember all the things I had done to her and forget all that she had done in return. I could have bitten her, eaten her womb, devoured all she wanted to be. I could have let her lick the afterbirth from my tight skin, but I just laid there staring at the copper pipes in the ceiling and when she fell down, hooking her chin on my shoulder and burying her face in the pillow behind my head, I began to recite poems that I had written for her years ago, when we were in love and knew nothing of each other.
May 3 1996
