excerpts from THE SUM OF BROKEN PARTS

 

 

9.

 

 

tired of bleeding of dreaming of

crawling from room to room

on frostbit mornings

 

tired of remembering and

of being afraid

 

late november sunlight through

dead vines and dirty windows and

i am sitting in this house filled with

dust, filled with blank sheets of

paper, and i am growing old

 

she is tired of hearing about it

 

we are finished but

no one says it

 

no one breathes

 

i keep waiting to wake up

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14.

 

 

the children asleep and

you on yr knees in a house

not quite 2/3 paid for sucking off

this man who hates you and he can’t

stop thinking about his girlfriend and he

can’t find anything good on tv

 

considers giving you answers to all of

the questions you’ve

never had the guts to ask

 

smiles to himself at the

thought of yr tears

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

25.

 

 

not living but

hiding in shades of grey, in

rooms with cracked and peeling walls,

with water-stained ceilings and

not drowning but not

breathing either

 

not looking at the sky but

staring directly into the dying sun

 

falling slowly into the frozen river

from a great height

 

like all good pain,

it only lasts for a second

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

34.

 

 

grew up grew

older had no use for

art for profound ideas or

startling images, had no desire to

be shocked or outraged, didn’t

care didn’t want to care, had bills to

pay had unexplained illnesses,

mysterious pains, the usual bouts

of depression and  art, jesus christ

what a waste of time, what a

fucking useless gift all of those

bystanders butchered in

meaningless wars all of those

children starving beaten raped

and was a pretty picture

really the best you

could do?

 

was a sad little poem

seriously going to be your

                       final word?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

39.

 

 

any number of books i’ve bought but

never read, all of them piled randomly in the

corners of this room where the ceiling

has begun to leak

 

the poem which, like everything else

in this life, is only an act of winding down

 

i stop answering letters,

  stop reading emails,

  stop picking up the phone

 

i sit on the floor with my back pressed

firmly against this bed of broken glass

 

75 degrees and then 85 and then 90

 

sky the color of luminous dust

 

no rain in the forecast, but i watch

the ceiling where it ripples

 

i watch the air where it gathers dust

 

it’s only a matter of time

before the worst that can happen

                                               will