torn labels

male bear
et prolog

when i was younger still my mother died. our house was down th street
from th high school and a grocery store, so when my father left my sister
and I were in walking distance of nutritional theory.

i was in charge – a virgin pushing around a man. i didn’t sleep. i lockd
th doors. i unlockd th doors. i went in and i went out, crushing dried
funeral roses in my fist and letting them slip on random doorsteps.

my father’s sister lived next door – an alcoholic, guardian in absentia –
and she would stop by once or twice a week. 

spring north of flowers didn’t exist. and summer was a flash in
th pan. 

then – th night air coold and coold and coaxd its way in. i chopd wood,
made fires. my sister became proficient at cooking good, thick soups. i
would make th stock and she would make th soup – chowders, bisques
and purees everyday.

nights I would sit by th fireplace in my father’s worn chair and harvest kerouac. 

no connection to th’outside world. while my sister slept in my bed.

i pictured my father as th black and white explorer of a history textbook.
100-pound external frame pack on his back – prepared yet determined,
looking stolid at a pinhole camera. nothing but distance for background.
th camera, set carefully on a rock. a mystery in th rock lungs behind him
kept deep hate from settling into th accumulating winters. 

born into winter – bound to a numb soul.

those early years were impressionable years, and they turnd out only
emptiness. when th sun was supposed to be simple, and light th path
of play – it cast shadows. radio waves and soft blonde hair on thin
legs; blankets and stars. there was none. only bonham’s solos and
solo chaos.

deeper into th shadows; goodbye closed tight.  through a heart.

my sister moved away at 16. she said she was scared of me when she
left, and I kept going.

i had one picture left and my mother is laughing. i threw everyone away
and she kept laughing that cancerous laugh. im th baby in her arms,
looking at her like – what is this laughter? all in a wooden frame.

life went on outside. my age swerved. school and jobs seemd useless. from
dawn to dusk the city swallowd itself. i ate my meals alone, in silence.
years passd of watching headlights cross the dark living-room walls.

th fire was lit but I couldn’t feel th flames – only th burn when it spirald
down my esophagus and choked me on the day I finally opend th dusty
bottle on th mantle – and its warm, thin liquid dulld and lulld me nightly.

became myself, rusty and sedated. one to care, another to forget.

and then dusk came on a day so much like any other. it could have been
a yesterday or a tomorrow. and th headlights on th wall crashed and th
fire assumed full-flame and chased me out th house – into my father’s
old bronco, I drove down th street past th school and th grocery store.

# posted by hardyf : 23:45