Suicide Notes

There is a dull aching pain somewhere in the nether strands 

of the pit of his belly
of the nerve endings hiding beneath my full, aching ass.
He is getting rid of all of his books, leaving them on my doorstep; announced after the fact.
There have been bags of books once lent, read, 

accidentally elephant-eared,
combed through, taped up and talk about in the front 

corners of bars.
Summers ago, when time opened up rather than closed down.
Metal element chipping away at tiny shards that embed themselves
beneath his lips, and gums- hardness that he cannot swallow,
mingling in the dark with the voices that lie to him daily.
Re-arrange ourselves in the light- occult, magick, history
Sade, Christ, Miller, Crowley and Yeats - all here to be shuffled around from his past to my feet.
Old, hard bindings of filmmaking from a non-digital era.  I keep the ones with artful screen captures, 
but let the rest of that roadway go.
Now I have my own piles, waiting to move out the door, except 

they won't get picked up on my street
feral cats make playthings of them, and shelters 

constructed out of brutal meanings
and a lack of ambition which flailed against my earlier years...

Wind tosses us about, as I run from his doorsteps down, in the black cold to the car.  Before the night is out, and I am drunk
he returns more and more, there again 

-left outside and bequeathed to me.
He is erasing himself, and I am powerless to stop him.
My words have weight - power, touch, pictures, hope and reach.
But they do not stick with him.  His words have no art,
no colour, or humor or perspective.
He never thought himself a writer, but his words leave me speechless
and though response always given, it is too wordy, meaningless
and I fall through the scattered, torn holes in its retort,
and he comes again to chosen silence.
So this exchange moves back and forth, in late winter,
in borrowed bags- our hopes, dreams, lusts now numb
his vitality stuck up its own ass.  

He cannot laugh at that juxtaposition.

What will he do next.  If he folded himself up 

into the fetal position,
mailed himself to my door-
I would cut him open, rip out all the blackened, burnt, over ripe
and underused cancers from his center, 

dice him in a fine, equal style
and plant him all around my home.  Feed, clothe, love and caress
each part until they grew up strong again, into the light, even if
that light were crooked, diagonal and wayward, like mine.
I would cook his head up in a deep seasoned pan,
until his brains let him loose and seered itself into something new, his flavorings dancing upwards into the clear 

heavens above my kitchen,
my hearth his resting place.
Off of his laurels, his synapses are shutting down-
his self not seeing, his life unmovable from the place in which it
remains as it is.  The same as he always is,
muddled and self-suffocated,
with a knife sticking out his side, driven from the inside-out,
silently hugging his knees in my doorway,
waiting for me to come home, as he suffers the wind
and the moon bearing its light down upon his lids
turning counter-clockwise in their sleep.

M. Lucia