A MAN OF PIECES

It seems that there was something once, or it would seem to be so, or something was or I was something—but it’s not confusion really, just things are not as clear as they once were. A flower, a ghost, a rising chest; all these memories give the same impression, an impression samed in memory, or memorialized in sameness. To say there is nothing left would be perhaps self-pitying or at least would sound so, but it’s not confusion really, there is something there it’s just that I find it indistinguishable from all these memories, the same impression, nothing or nothingness. But the knees curl up to the chest—well, not curl exactly, and there are so many names, so many names, names for everything it seems, or it would seem to be so, but I only remember the names and not the things certainly not the things themselves, the somethings, or everythings which once were are names only indistinguishable from all these memories, the same things, nothing or nothingness. Names only. No thing-ness. Indistinguishable from nothing or nothingness or rather barely distinguishable because I seem to remember vaguely the outlines of letters, the spelling of each name, the dark blackness of the outlines of letters, serif and sans-serif, the spelling of each name to which I try to give some significance relating to the something itself but it is so useless, these vague outlines and curves don’t seem to be anything and they definitely don’t suggest anything other than themselves anymore to my mind and I’m not sure what they themselves really are anyway so the suggestions appear meaningless. I seem to remember vaguely the outlines of letters but even that seems not to be as clear as it was not so long ago and there are so many names and I am sure now that I don’t have a sure memory of the outlines of letters just vague lines curving serifly or sans in different directions to which I have given the significance of letters and that is the source of my mistake, the root of all evil, as it were.

It seems as though I have been repeating these words over and over and whatever action it is that accompanies them over and over, though I cannot seem to be able to remember exactly what it was that was once again, that was over and over—it all appears so strange, so hideously unchanging and yet so unfamiliar. Everything around me seems unfamiliar, or it would seem to be, appears to be just a little different somehow, a little wrong, a little less bright than it was in my recent memory, but then I stop for a moment and I’m not quite sure exactly what that recent memory might be or might have been; I do know and understand, or at least it seems that way, that what I think was in that memory was somewhat or somehow different from the appearances of things as they are before me. Once, it seems, someone said I was a man of parts. Yet my skin seems a little more pale than it was yesterday, that feeling once again just so unfamiliar, so unfamiliar maybe I thought the same thing yesterday or the day before yesterday or the day before that, once again it just is so unfamiliar, so wrong, so uncomfortable.

Yes, uncomfortable. I am constantly uncomfortable. Yes, I constantly change positions when I am sitting or lying. There is always some lump in the cushions on the sofa, or some itch on my skin, or simply some inner urge to fidget that must be obeyed. Likewise, I constantly change positions in bed at night. Several lovers have told me that they could not stay the night because of this, although I never sleep because every slightest grain of debris, perhaps some piece of sand or crumb that attached itself to the sole of my foot as I walked barefoot across the wood, registers its presence to my nervous system, growing bigger and bigger in my mind until it is the only thing that exists. But the knees curl up to the chest and I rock back and slightly forth, uncomfortably. I would like to say that I am so uncomfortable that I am constantly up and moving about, a rolling stone, as they say, but it doesn’t appear to be so. Though every slightest grain disturbs me, it seems, or would at least seem to be so, that I just sit here or lie here, uncomfortably

I am constantly uncomfortable. The hand, the face, the outstretched hand, outstretched in the sense that all five fingers each strain for something furthermost, something there, it’s just that I find it indistinguishable from all these memories, the same impression, nothing or nothingness. Not quite what they are, but just beyond where they can ever be but they are always in the same position or rather the same place, no further away from my hand than they were yesterday or the day before yesterday or the day before that—furthermost, indeed. Once again, stretched, stretched like this just before my face with knees curled up to the chest. Curled, perhaps, is not the right word. Nothingness or nothing, the same things, these memories from all indistinguishable, only names are, were once, which everythings or somethings, themselves the things, not certainly the things and not the names, remember; only I, but so be it, would seem to, or, it seems, everything for names, names, so many names, so many are there. Yes, curled is not the right word. I am indeed constantly uncomfortable. Once, it seems, I was comfortable. Once, it seems, someone said I was a man of parts. A flower, a ghost, a rising chest; all these memories become a single impression samed in memory, but it’s not confusion really, just things are not as clear as they once were. Names only. Barely distinguishable or barely indistinguishable. I was something once or something was, or to be so, it would seem once something was there. That, it seems.

AUBADE

The first time I fucked my wife in the ass we were both seventeen—well, we’re not married anymore and we weren’t when it happened either, but the point still stands. We’d met in the usual way: she was friends with a girl whose boyfriend was a friend of a friend of mine, or something like that. My friend Jack and I had walked over to Mason Park to meet this guy because he knew a kid at his church who could sell us a dime bag. We sat through the service, the preacher’s thin, reedy voice wheezing about the pews, but the kid didn’t have any weed, so we went to this guy’s house where his grandma drooled over Jack, constantly saying how handsome he would be if he’d only cut his hair and pull up his sagging jeans. She served us fatty, gristly roast with potatoes and carrots, and gave Jack more meat than the rest of us. The guy’s greasy-faced girlfriend told me she knew a girl who would be perfect for me. 

The funny thing was that I saw the shit on my cock while I was fucking her, and while I was indeed disgusted by it, being seventeen I wanted to come so bad that I just pretended that I hadn’t seen it at all until I had finished. I don’t know why I’m telling you all these sordid details. It’s distasteful, I know, yet here we are. Lord knows I’ve tried to do better, to avoid these indignities, at least that’s what I tell myself, but you gotta do what you gotta do, I suppose.

Anyhow, this guy’s girlfriend had an oily, pock-marked face and a fat ass, as far as I remember. She was annoying as all hell, but it would be a lie to say that I didn’t think about fucking her. This guy—I don’t remember his name after so many years, or his face, but his dry straw-blond hair sticks in my memory—went inside to get the phone, brought it out, cord trailing, to the porch where we were all sitting, then she called her friend and put me on the line. We laughed towards each other nervously at first but soon agreed to meet the following week. 

She gave me a handjob on our first date. I can’t say it was love at first sight, but it was my first handjob, and that counts for something. Lovely weather for ducks, she quipped when my cock spurted cum on her sweater and in her hair after what seemed like just a few seconds. I didn’t get it at the time. Still don’t. Why the fuck would a seventeen-year-old girl from Akron, Ohio say something like that? Why would that even be in her repertoire? That was not her first handjob, I can tell you that much. She eventually got pregnant, so we got married. We were both nineteen. The baby died of SIDS a couple months after he was born, but we were already married so there seemed to be little else to do other than stay so. Seemed easy as falling off a log, but it turns out that the problem with falling off a log is that it’s a lot harder than it looks. 

Her parents were out of town, visiting her sister in Kentucky or her father’s twin brother and his family over in Indiana—I can’t remember anymore—and I had come over to spend the night. After I came, I pretended to be surprised and told her about the situation, then went to the bathroom to wash the shit off my cock. When I came back she was sitting on the couch with her legs pulled up against her chest. She apologized and I told her not to worry about it. We put on some music and sat there without talking for I don’t know how long, but we eventually went to bed. Next day I had the morning shift at Burger King, so I got up at the last minute, hurried to get dressed and ran out the door. She apologized again, and I told her again not to worry. 

The guy’s name was Chris, I’m pretty sure.