FS

You first saw the light in the room you most likely were conceived in. A cat mews in the corner. You crawl around inspecting dustbunnies and contemplate the stucco ceiling on your back with the light in your face. Youʼre lying in your bed face down startled awake by a slam. Part of the dream? Perhaps. You wait you hear crying you wait you hear yelling you wait you sweat you cry. A bottle shatters and light comes in through the window by streetlight. A thud and you wait you wait you wait and you sleep. You dream you see the light in the womb you were conceived in. You promise.

A faint voice at loudest. A faint cat mews from somewhere in the walls. She crawls on all fours stands upright and walks talks. The light shelters below it up from down where it came from. You look behind you to see what is in front. A door slams and you look up crossword puzzles and der Spiegel sit strewn organized chaotically. In the hallway is darkness visible. Literal daggers and you cry. Flowers fly by you singing fear in your ear and shatters behind you shards drop. You try to protest but your tongue is too free to articulate. It stings vibrating red and you fall to your back and speech is a faint voice at loudest. The light darkens above from down up where it went. You promised.

You are an old man plodding along a narrow country road. You fish you hunt you gather you breathe you drink. A cigarette hangs staggeredly from your mouth. You work hard you work hard you work hard you drink. She walks across the shag and mumbles a few words. You are indifferent. It is dark in the hallway and you can see that. You walk in and accost der Spiegel and throw a vodka bottle at the wall it shatters and you drink. She cries. You promised. You drink. You swing. Swing and a miss strike three Jays lose again. You sit alone in front of the television and the light comes in through the window sprinkling the game. You do not drink. You are alone. You do not drink. You are an old man and you plod along a certain narrow country road. He died eight months ago, alone in front of the tv. Yet you read.

Unpublished (December 2009)

bathroom graffiti

I might try to bury it in the back yard--it's starting to rot--maggot infested, the putrid aroma of death perfumes the vicinity--his hands are covered in crimson, mine are searching. Like a wandering hobo I steal--I steal from the trash and I steal from what's not yet trash. There was something about the crimson hands that lured me into his theft, the theft of him. Lacking purpose maybe, this man died for a reason. Most of the body a mushy pile of decaying flesh from the vehicle(s)--everything destroyed, except for the crimson hand still intact.

Still discernable, however, are the tattoo on his back and the scar on his chest. His eyes gaze upward, as if in search of something in the heavens or, perhaps, in fear of something up there.

My hands slowly explore my jacket--I take a small pocket knife out of my pocket and into his chest I inscribe (he does not bleed):

i do not know who i am
i do not know where i went
i do know that you know that i am dead
but i had a purpose.

The spade shovel has dried mud on it as I thrust it into the ground--eventually digging to five and a half feet with a width of two and three-quarters. The crevice between my thumb and index finger has begun to blister--by the time I am finished, the fluid from my blister has dried down the shovel handle. I prop him up against the pile of extracted dirt and rest to admire my work, and my art. I look up at the sky--the setting sun on the cusp of the horizon paints the sky-canvas an array of soft hues of red, orange and indigo while the moon, a faint crescent, suggests that night is waiting behind the curtain, waiting for the sun's set to be over.

His neck snaps upon impact as I kick him into his hole--his gaze, still, purposefully fixed skyward.


(2007, from Algoma Ink 2008 with edits)