The Hours
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!


Loss  | Vashon | Services | Art | Poetry | Store | Contact

© 1999 KotaPress All rights reserved.  ISSN 1534-1410
Please direct comments regarding this web site to