|
The Constants
By Craig Bergman
The old man bends over
to touch the piece of lint on his shoe
A piece of glass left behind glimmers in the noonday sun
Children play on Sunday, happy to be free of their taskmasters
as I sit here in this airless room
staring at the paint chips
wondering when I’ll shit again.
It’s been 6 days and I can’t go.
Tuesday, no Wednesday,
I almost shat out a mother load.
I felt it coming,
that feeling of something big on its way.
Will it be a triple curly
Will it splash up
Will it be soft or hard?
All of a sudden
what was once a sure thing went away.
I blamed myself.
I over-thought it.
It snaked back up into my intestines,
cool, warm—a train delayed in station.
The pain in my belly is awful,
just awful.
Every way I turn my head
the environment mocks me.
The brown shag carpeting snickers
pillows mock my inadequacy
the beat up Salvation Army sofa smirks
the blinds thick with dead skin close their eyes to me
the worst shame of all.
The main thought in my head is
Blank blank I should have
Blank blank I should have
Blank blank I should have.
My stomach gets sour in black waves.
A man makes plane reservations outside my apartment.
I can hear his fat voice
everytime he says, “That sounds great!”
I am fighting for every word.
This pen is innocent looking—
pick it up and it reveals its true nature.
Stubborn. Recalcitrant. Angry. Hopeless.
Tomorrow brought whatever it’s gonna bring.
It ain’t much—
A studio apartment in Culver City
a view of endless telephone wires and b-movie studios
a useless job in a useless town
a gut the size of a large flabby white gut
chronic masturbation.
I meant to write constipation.
Life picks you up from time to time
and gives you a kiss on the cheek.
Mostly it leaves you alone to fend for yourself
Dreams
Retired fantasies.
It’s all over now.
What else is there to say?
More words, for what?
Fill the Grand Canyon with words
and all you’ve got is a lot of breath.
Words imprison me.
Every time I write or speak I think
that’s not what I mean
that’s not what I’m feeling
that’s not what I wanted to say.
I try to keep it all together
nice and tight
but it blows apart.
There goes the old man again.
There goes me.
Alone.
Backed up.
Confused.
Self beating.
The orchestra of voices in my skull
crashing into each other.
Chairs collapsing.
Parties ending.
Pirates raiding.
Sea shells clamming shut.
Shit.
|
