 |
| Deteriorating Substance, by Brendan McCarthy |
Emil Cioran, The Trouble with Being Born
As I walked down the street with a spring in my step,
hands deep in pockets full of sticky, dead seeds,
a glorious, sunny lightness unfurled behind my smiling eyes.
Bloated rats scurried through the downtown landfill,
trapped in the 9 to 5 maze.
I wiped the crusted time from my eyes
with the secret, white manna of my fingers,
and looked up at the bright blue
above the gray mounds of concrete, steel, and glass.
The sudden buoyancy reminded me of skipping school,
but it was much better,
as if I had whited out my name from the class roster altogether,
saving myself from the teachers’ wooden mouths,
those holes filled with pubic hair soaked in flat coffee,
and drizzled with chalk dust.
It was as if I only had to go to school during recess
To smoke with my buddies and plan the weekend debauchery.
As if I had snaked the wormy tail of a sperm
though the eyes of my slingshot,
knotted the ends tightly,
and stoned the school’s windows,
smashed the teachers’ thick myopia glasses,
and broke the chalk of their teeth.
The anonymous, ghostly rebellion lifted me,
my sneakers stopped touching the pavement,
and I found myself pedaling through the air
toward the infinite sky
and the dark waters beyond.
A beatific smile split my lips,
Why not go all the way?
Isn’t the one whose steps leave no trace, free to go anywhere?
I remembered when I was but a wriggling proof of my dad’s fall from grace,
digging in the shell of the egg,
only this time I puked inside,
A violent, black jet
that smashed the egg, and filled the womb,
oozing from the lips,
and sealing them into a pious silence.
