by
Daniel W. Gonzales
Dedicated to Virginia
Woolf &
the novel by Michael Cunningham
Even death isn't thrilling
anymore
it doesn't have the same
finality it used to
it drags on and on like
some petulant child
begging for candy until
his mother breaks
his arm. I am hungry for
the grotesque
and the beautiful and the
dead. I want
my life to be a parade of
surreal creatures
all vying for a spot on
Insanity Roe.
I've seen identical twins
reap wonders with
their lust but the lust
has even become a bit
of a bore because all it
implies is the inequality
of the sexes and that story
has been told so
many times that it's grown
cobwebs on the womb.
Ordinary hours can be comforting
ordinary things like apples
and pears and oranges
and razorblades but the
most beautiful thing of
all is the unknown because
it holds and haunts
and takes us by breath.
Those long hours
of not knowing what will
happen next
and i'm afraid i've gotten
addicted to the fear
of the unknown, that thrill
of death or slash
not knowing whether it will
be the lady or the tiger
that I've forgotten how
to live.
I see the silver jellyfish
in the window
and I think, "there's
my brain, how quaint it
looks.
Why does it seem so damaged
in my head?
Will it smile now? Will
it repair itself or is it
doomed
to self-destruction?"
Then I tuck it back into
my skull and claim this
as Judgment Day.
Christ is on the throne
again
and hubby is late from work.
God most assuredly is a
man.
Then there is the woman
in the window
baking bread all day, she
looks haggard
even a little suicidal,
I wave to her but she
does not see me, now she
is baking a cake
she writes Happy Birthday
in bold letters.
The Y is crooked, she makes
a feral face
of anguish, I see death
in the kitchen
but then again, I see death
in all things.
Then I see the future woman
the one who has yet to exist
in this realm
she has a scarf wrapped
about her throat
and she looks hungry for
something she
can never have. She lives
in the past,
the future and the present
all at once
but belongs to one of them.
She is another victim of
the hours.
We are all hungry here
and we need constant feeding.
What if the world never
ends? we think
What if this big mess goes
on and on
and on. Perhaps there is
no peace
until you are done of breath.
So we comfort ourselves
with the thoughts
of razorblades and bottles
of sleeping pills
and stones in the pockets.
There is hope after all
a bleak sort of hope but
something
to keep us going on
knowing that there is always
an exit
and we are the masters of
our
own destinies.
Thanks
for the contribution, Daniel!
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