#erou

We're a stormy kind of people— my father rained for days after his funeral; we each of us tempest our old-world rage. In another age we'd have been gods, but here we are, in our mortgaged homes, rented apartments, in our leased cars, in our morning commutes. Here we are in our everyday spite and sorrow, in our lifetimes of fury. All our sturm und drang and nothing to show for it; we're human even on the worst days— when it rains it pours and we're caught in it too.

sick hungry woman    I take and take too much this miss    mistress distrust me disgust    me    wanting woman wanton woman    I a mouthing    a tonguing    an in-cheek kinda sly-slippery-snakebite of a woman    bite of a woman who licks—

-…fiecare erou este un alt om descris prin hiperbolă.

          What now? when a war is unspoken? when a home holds no promise of more?           What to make? of the mornings and evenings a lifetime of mornings and evenings the same as before

I beast- summoning woman    beast-loving woman    I make me a man a meal    I snare I snake    I hungry and    I swallow    whole

Because there are so few hobbies left to the dead, my father gives himself this: his usual route, the Queens-bound F to Continental, where he walks with the living to work. Every day he finds a new occupation— picks trash off the tracks, changes a dirty lightbulb, makes rounds on the platforms, tries to make some small use of his hands, though no one notices or acknowledges. Yet still he returns every day, in his tan shirt and brown slacks ironed with the impatience of the perpetually late, his keys jingling carelessly in his left front pocket.