Concerns of an Educated Man

And what's real and sincere about a desire birthed from nothing, you know?

Like, we might as well have just watched Lassie reruns (I did) for years and built a story of succeeding at life out of that

Dad in the front door at 5:30 every day

The refrigerator stocked with fresh milk and coldcuts

The doilies on the couch armrests perfectly draped

Domestic tranquility

American nuclear familial bondings over roast-meat dinners

faithful companionship from purebred animals

Cars that start every morning

But why, you know?

Is it the promise of everyday familiarity with reliable/comfortable surroundings?

or is it because we've been indoctrinated into a set of desires that only appear to meet needs we may not even actually have?

For the record, I think it's real

I do

But I worry, because how can you not?

Days After

He awoke to the sound of the very last drops of a passing storm pattering against the small, single-pane window above the washer and the dryer that stood sequestered across from him in an alcove on the other side of the finished basement. "Rain," he whispered in the half-choked voice of morning. He lay motionless for a few moments trying to hold the remnants of his dream in memory, but they slipped farther into his unconscious with each exhalation. And so he lifted himself up on his elbows and, with one hand, rubbed each eye into focus. By the time he was up and dressed and standing in the kitchen with a small glass of water in one hand and the very end of a loaf of bread, just recently stale, with a thick smear of peanut butter across in the other, the sun was out and shining, the needle on the dial thermometer was climbing just past 80, and faint wisps of steam hung, nearly motionless, above the shrinking puddles of water that had collected in the low points of the driveway.

He passed an idle hour by listlessly drifting from one room to the next and back again. "Here I am," he thought to himself, "Home..."

I Live for 25 Years

Tonight I will close my eyes and dream of the three of us nestled beneath a mound of blankets, of floorboards creaking beneath stranger's footfalls, the clapboards and thin glass struggling to keep out the cold, of ancient cobwebs strung across eaves hidden in darkness.

I see the miles of rain-soaked highway that I have traveled. The cracked pavement I have walked. The rocks and trees I have climbed. I can feel the warmth of the sun, remembered. I relive a thousand idle afternoons. I see the smiling faces of those I have loved and who have loved me. I feel their fingers run slowly through my hair and come to rest on my chest.

Tonight I will sleep, immersed in the warmth of memory, alone.

Valentine's Day, 2012

The hole in the crotch of my jeans grows everyday in direct relation to the total accumulation of dust that sits on each of the fan's blades that hang idly in the air above a couch whose cushions collapse a little more each time I sit on them. And so I sit, marveling at the slow wasting away of everything that surrounds me; degradation and gradual failure. Nothing grows here. 

How long will I continue? When do I fray?

What is Sleep to the Ascetic?

Why do I linger on into these darkened hours?
Shades drawn, windows shuttered, animals sleep
Ceiling-borne lights shut off, lamps are favored now.

Why do I hunt and search these too-bright screens?
These curled, cream pages?

For fantasies, with which I stanch my memory's flow.
Or for knowledge with which to advise action I am too afraid to take.

Why else ask a question one already knows the answer to, if not to delay?

Trouble

Somewhere in France. August, 2011

Zeppelinfeld Kickflip

Nürnberg, Germany. August, 2011.

Creem Crew

Michael. Brooklyn, New York. January, 2011

Physically Fit, Morally Straight

Colman. Somewhere off I-95, South Carolina. January, 2011

It may as well be home

New York City. January 2011.

Practice

Colman. Greensboro, North Carolina. January, 2011.

I sit and stare at walls

Bleak moments, these, pregnant with anxieties that, though still young, seemed as old as his own age would allow; descended from a long, hearty line of anxieties not so different from today's. Anxieties about cars crashed or fallen into disrepair, dwindling reserves of personal capital, disappointed girlfriends left wondering what it is, exactly, that they're doing sticking around, debt (always of debt!) amassed to, seemingly, no personal gain, the mere prospect of having to feed himself yet again with food prepared in haste and with a lack of skill, and, of course, his having these anxieties at all.

And hey

I'm sorry, but what can I say. Nothing's seemed to work out for me anyway.

An Old Poem

I am haunted by the ghost of you

Standing loose-limbed and angry

The corner of a mouth turned slightly down

A brow furrowed almost indistinguishably

I can taste exasperation

I can taste disgust

I can feel frustration

"We" has wilted, slowly

No matter where I go

I'll still be there.

A Dream

I swim clothed through water cold and black. I am in a marsh or swamp of some kind and I push through roots and stalks and detritus. To my left, I believe, is the end of the world. I can see abandoned houses, but they are off the map, beyond the border, unreachable. One sits closer to me than the rest. Laid over the edge of the front porch, its neck arched, head resting on the bottom step, is a horse recently dead. I look behind me and see other horses struggling through the water towards me. Though they struggle, they seem at peace. I struggle, too.

I step gingerly through woods newly clothed in snow. The world is now devoid of color. We do not walk together. We do not often walk together. You are always ahead. I trample the imprints your shoe has pushed into the powder in boots a size too big. 

Some things that I remember

I remember rolling decades old matchbox cars down lengths of decades old orange, plastic track across a decades old living room under the watchful gaze of a decades old grandmother who had watched my father do the same. Wind could be heard blowing down the chimney. The cat's bell clattering as it turned a corner.

I remember peering over the top edge of a lawn chair and the sudden and panicked fear that I felt as I unexpectedly tipped over the edge and dropped onto the rocks below. I have forgotten the pain.

I remember the barn behind my aunt's house encircled with blackberry bushes. 

I remember being thrown over Austin Weaver's shoulder during an altercation. Was it cold outside? I walked away in tears.

I remember one brother throwing the other over the bed and the way the window shattered when his foot flew through it.

I remember riding my bicycle home in the cold, wishing I had stayed right where I was.

I remember a thunderstorm summoned.

I remember the scars stretched across skin.

I remember hiding under the rear seat of my parent's Peugeot.

I remember being afraid of darkness. 

I remember building gasoline bombs in my neighbor's garage. 

I remember four of us in my basement, asleep and content.

I remember the pain that took my breath away. Feelings of loss and betrayal. 

I remember a darkened basement and pedaling in circles, and children laughing.

Circa April 7th, 2005

You are easily the most enjoyable aspect of my life.

Circa October 5th, 2006

The other day I doodled my gravestone onto a page. The epitaph read:

"There's nothing wrong with anything."