prose and poems by F.D. Marcél

on a tuesday, into wednesday

And, for a time, everything around me is broken down and muted. Unpredictable in its length, all I can do is keep at my pack of smokes, wait it out, start the record over, smoke down to my last cigarette. Neighbor Pike, unfeeling psychopath, coke dealer, wife-beater, pounds on my door a few hours before sunrise. His tiny, bird eyes let me know how badly he wants to choke me to death when I tell him I’ve finished off the last of my beer. I send him away empty-handed, go back to the sofa, wait it out, start the record over, crack open the beer I’ve magically produced from thick air. And there is no more Tylenol PM, and I have no more money. And I am distraught suddenly, realizing I will not sleep again at all, until the next paycheck. The beer is warmer than it was a few minutes before.


and we’ll see
each other
in emptiness
in silence, somewhere
in air
in the dust of dying stars
and the carbon of meteorites
and the soil of an undiscovered planet
and the rain on a friday
and the sunrise and the
in insects and
in flowers; and
nothing dies, it merely
cycles back into
the universe and
existence and
your consciousness is nothing
compared to our
sub-atomic particles
meeting again
in the belly
of a supernova
in the darkness
of space, shining
bright somewhere in the sky
we’ll see
each other
again, we’ll
see each other

fuck fuck fuck

Your love:
the most wicked
of all afflictions,
rifles a wide wound
through the human heart;
a wound
that will never close &
that will never
be filled & must always
be filled &
is picked at w/ vigor
like a scab,
to watch it open up once more &
to watch it heal again. Your
love, sought like
a lethal poison,
is the most perfect path
to destruction. Wouldn’t have it
any other way.

never really been

once searched
thermodynamics for a way
to explain the madness
in my mind
& shallow breathing kept
me awake &
nightmares of being
alone for entireties of
lifespans that stretched
end to end,
forever in a loop,
wringed my soul of all
its love and
echoed across
immeasurable distances
in all directions;
I watched the blood
drain from my knuckles
running to my Alamo heart
for a last stand w/
backs against arterial walls,
old iron guts
that didn’t want the
world to see them, never
really been around
to see myself, always
been elsewhere dreaming up
a better ‘around’.

one year sober

I drank to remember
to forget
hundreds of misshapen
uneven paths taken
that led only to suffering &
self-inflicted pains;
a fractured mind and
a broken body
housing what is left of
a damaged spirit. With
all the
unmitigated beauty
that surrounds me,
I feel no peace and
no peace may ever come to me.
Nada left but
darkness, el fin.
Been handfuls of eternity
since my heart
has known purpose. My soul
is only a fossil now:
a memory with no place
in modernity; an artifact
of an era
of which I am unfamiliar.

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