SISYPHUS

In this dream,

I am holding my father’s hands.

I am not holding his hands

the way you imagine.

His body is not connected to his hands

and he is not taking me anywhere.

I am holding his severed right hand

in my right hand

and his severed left hand

in my left hand.

There is no blood

or dangling veins and tissue.

It’s not macabre or grotesque.

I’m holding his full

grown, dense, complete hands in mine

as if they’re props,

or the hands of a robust mannequin.

The skin is there.

It’s soft, textural, smooth.

I can see the creases

he formed

straight out of the womb

of his mother –

a woman I’ll never know.

I’ve seen her picture.

It’s in black and white, of course.

All clichés are.

She’s tidy, like a ball of clay.

Her hair is in a bun.

Her heart is vacuum sealed.

How is it

we’re all born with creased palms?

What have we all been doing inside

the guts of our mothers?

Grasping at muck?

Trying to crush the future?

But this isn’t about my grand mother

and it isn’t about my father.

It’s about my father’s hands.

East and west.

Left and right.

The poles of the universe

held together

in the palms of a man

larger than my wall-less dream.

Taller than the peak of misery.

In my hands, I hold

my father’s wrinkled fists.

When did

they become fists?

These matchstick bones?

These ivory splinters?

What could I have done

to prevent the balling of fingers?

The striking

of knuckles?

The veins are as thick as worms.

They undulate with the rhythm

of jelly fish.

Belly dancers

The guts of fat dictators.

The gelatin of boiled pig fat.

It’s a massacre –

this dream.

Grabbing clouds –

the mist of truth

evaporates between

the bony claws I call fingers.

In the dream

I am holding my father’s fists.

His body, however,

is not attached.

It’s elsewhere

along with his rotting mind.

I may as well

be holding stones.

HIKING

My right hand grabs a protruding rock

as my left foot wedges the thick, jagged sole

of my boot into a lighting bolt shaped crack.

My body is working automatically

gravity and fear driving all systems - 

my heart and lungs oscillate

with the rhythm of an organ grinder.

I shouldn't be here. I left the rocky path;

the color of doll skin.

Everyone hikes that trail because it’s easy.

My limbs and muscles want

to get to the top of this canyon alone.

My tendons have a personal vendetta.

My lymphatic system is driven by anger.

My synapses thirst for the settling of scores.

My fingers pull against the harsh angles

pulling the sack of my body toward the top

as earth crumbles under my feet.

Tiny boulders dislodge and plummet

rolling over the rocks below –

clickity-clack-clack-click-clunk.

My lips conserve water and dry up.

My chest and back try to hug the rock face

but they are cursed with ridged ribs.

My cartilage forces my bones

over each stony, taunting face –

my eyes refuse to look away.

My toes grapple to find footing

even in this loose sand –

all of it cascading under me

until it becomes too much.

My knees kick my shins and feet

as my boots tread sand.

My brain is a megaphone.

Keep digging! There's always a footing

underneath all of this.

When faced with it

My life does not flash.

It does not sparkle, or shine, or glint.

My hands clench

dehydrated reeds and pray

roots don’t slither from the earth

let go of the dense dirt

packed underneath –

the mass of blood soaked gauze.

There have been so many

they are all blending together.

Harsh memories.

My brain is no longer amplified.

It’s now silent as a catalogue.

Each page

boxes of images and text.

My mother holding me on her chest

as we lie on a course, plaid couch.

My father smoking

a Benson and Hedges 100

as he flips through a Romanian paper.

The beatings have all been worth it.

Every bruise, every belt,

Every night pissing in the corner of a bedroom.

Fear.

Forgiveness.

You can’t take them with you up this rocky surface.

Who cares how ridiculous all of you look?

Imagine what the world thinks of the man

you each live in.

It doesn’t really matter.

When all of you make it to the top

and my eyes stair out at the skyline

I don’t really see

how it all works together

or how it all slips away.

THE BAKERY

Late January –

tastelessly warm.

Parked in front.

Inside ovens breathe; heave fire.

The temperamental GPS
brought me here.

Today she decided
to work even though

she's let me down

so many times before.

Freezing up, no longer showing me
the tiny blue, computer generated

version of my car

like a small piece in a board game.

The color of a clear Chicago sky
after the sun has set on an icy evening –

Navy. Cobalt.  Almost black.
Thinking about burning all pictures

Frames, glass included.
Burn the ex-wife, the ex-girlfriend,

the ex-painting of me
acrylic flesh tones, a glaze of pink

some aggressive black
strokes depicting the thick hair

I no longer have.

Last night.

Too much talk, too much jazz.

A pile of raw fish –
enough whiskey to be cliché.

I stopped at our favorite neighborhood dive,
shook hands with the bartender,

told him I was leaving for Los Angeles.
He tore the check up in front of me

Smiling. How could he be so absurd?
A brief moment of acceptance.

I drank, eyeing the girl behind the bar

after meeting her for the first time

Eastern European, smeared Egyptian paint

on her eye lids – a thin black whisker

of eyeliner

curls from the corner of each eye.

A loose black cotton shirt,

an involved scarf,

a green corduroy mini skirt –

still can’t help me forget.

Drove home.

Stumbled over the walk way,

dragged my dangling limbs

with the cadence of a zombie.

My chest cavity closed

into the smile of a Venus fly trap.

Your brown hair clip - ribs,

spring loaded teeth,

bite into your hair

to show me the soft skin of your neck.

A freckle.

A necklace on a Sunday morning

The day was the color of lava.

The air was the density of a wish.

I'm reeling.

The repetitive, gurgling mantra

repeats without effort.

It's a fucking nightmare.

But in the bakery,

there are women in their fifties.

Here on a Tuesday.
They laugh,

wear consignment shop blouses,

one in a black fur. Chinese dog hair.

She is a crow

playing bridge with friends.

I order a bagel,

lox, sundried tomato cream cheese.

You used to make a similar sandwich.
Always an enormous plastic sack

of bagels in your freezer, the tofu spread.
You are a mother. Always prepared.

Kind, most of the time.

Guilty a lot.

The women laugh louder,

On the edge of cackling, squawking.

I’m infuriated. Jealous. Lonely. Sick.

The truth will make you flee.

Happiness is in the cards

But love comes straight out of the oven.

In your earthly decorated apartment

On a petite street.

All parking spots taken.

All doors locked.

All balconies swept clean.

All drapes drawn.

And all beds

are funeral pyres

drifting down a murky river.

The filthy shores

Where Hindu women

scrub clothes on washboards –

getting smaller and smaller

until water surrounds it all.

And the flames

lash and whip - defiantly

at the unimpressed sky.

Smoke ascends -

charcoal colored swirls

and tiny tornadoes of black ash.

And no god up there

to breathe in any of it.