far beneath the waves

there's a vast old forest,

thick with milky brine and

the debris of bygone affections.

the things that swim there

watch me from time to time

with great interest

as i trudge home, hat-bowed,

and toss them the occasional morsel.

there is no self-pity in the forest,

and there are no good apologies;

there is only work,

and the echoes of dreams

which glow in the brine

with the clarity and softness

of a psalm.

for twelve days now,
innards torn by some invisible
red-hot poker, or else
something 
not metaphorical at all.

then suddenly a fever,
which i do enjoy,
because of how it lifts the veil
of objective reality.

medical jargon
medical jargon
sign this, print that

all muffled against the crashing waves of pain.
"calm down, or i won't be able to find a vein",
says a nurse.
"okay", i nod cooperatively,
not fully recognizing the leftovers of my own voice.

how tedious this all must be for her.
anyone's personal drama is everyone else's background noise.
it all gets lost, dissolved.

painkillers.
sleep.

i am sitting in a vast room
furnished with black silk over lilac marble
and tall windows, through which
sunlight carves a diagonal brightness;
before me, two sphinxes guard the only door,
which would surely lead to freedom and 
the fulfilment of old promises.

one desires a tribute of kindness
- a glowing heart, wet with ichor and love; 
the other demands a gift of violence
- a warped, odious fruit, red with malice and resentment.

though i wish to leave,
i know that, whichever i please, 
i should incur the disfavor of the other -
so i wait.

they look at me and lick their lips,
teeth glinting behind unfathomable half-grins.

it takes me years before i realize two things:
one, that what they truly want is (only) 

to devour my heart; and
two, that everyone in this room is going to be
disappointed.

back to the age-old question: why do i even bother to write? i censor most of my internal dialogue. it's not inspirational; most of it isn't. it's not pretty, even if it's usually well-worded. it's not family-friendly. it's not motivational. it's neither lyrical nor worthy of being processed through fifteen peer-reviewed filters into a script. it is stained with unbleachable disappointment and hurt, self-inflicted and otherwise. it is all quite pointless, because no one is listening. it is whispered, a lot of it is, and it carries well in quiet rooms, all the rooms, though no one is listening. it is technically not a dialogue. it contains words that make people want to leave, like "let us be honest". it is a story, all stories. it's exquisite, and grotesque. it doesn't matter. you neither could nor should understand what it means. it goes on and surges like a dust devil. it whistles in the parapets of partially crumbled fortresses. it chills the tips of your ears. it sweeps the sand and the leaves and the sea birds through the morning mist towards the ocean.

of all the voices that sing in your head
like haunted radio stations
the worst by far is always playing that old hit
"you deserve it"

so this is hell
a 24/7 desk job where you can neither
change the station nor
turn off the radio.