I wash away the blood and try again to be a simple man
What is the meaning of suffering, anyway?
Discordia does not, it turns out, hate everything. Every other week, we share a piece of work from some artists who've earned our respect and affection.
There is art that moves us, and there is art that moves with us. This is Fellow Travellers.
Joshua Chris Bouchard will be very familiar to long time Discordia readers as our resident haruspex/astrologer, but he is better known as one of the fiercest and most elemental poets of his generation, as seen in his essential collection BURN DIARY (2023, Wolsak and Wynn). We couldn’t be more pleased to share some new work from the old bear.
HAVE A GOOD ONE
It’s one idea, I guess. Give up, fuck it, resign, throw in the towel. An entire generation built on What if I never existed? And nobody is listening. We all have suffered the blows of the last exit, a place we once knew each other. We have cut our palms just to bleed. One day, if we’re lucky, we won’t need anything worthwhile anymore. Nature will take its course. It will hump this or birth that, kill this or sacrifice that. That’s how it works. You’re in it, not of it. And the underground keeps on laughing. Tectonic plates crush under each other like a slow-motion mosh pit. Animals sleep soundly in a primordial lack of fear. Just wait. You’ll get yours and wear it like a flag. Occasionally, there’s that one moment, but it takes a lifetime.
RETAIL THERAPY
When I pummel myself through a small group of blind children, it's not for a lack of humanity. How else can I satisfy my longing for wool socks, small spoons, dish sets to carry strips of my flesh for guests that never come? In any case, we're all alive for one reason, and one reason alone. Everything we do is worth it now.
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO TO ME
The dentist says the X-ray is blank but my teeth have many fine points. She asks if I’m any good with words. Once, a long time ago, I’d sit in this chair with dignity. If I’m lying, she’ll know, so I better smarten up. Doctor, I think I’m getting tired and it’s getting late. Sugar? Yes. Coffee? Ok. Need advice? Only if it’ll destroy me. There’s time for only us. Put that metal buzz deep inside my skull and don't stop asking if I feel any pain. You tell me. I’ll see you again next week but I already forgot your name.
SHAVING MY HEAD
There's no other choice. The cat wails on the hardwood, begs for pets, licks clumps clinging to her ass. The coffee is cold, turns bitter in the plastic kettle. I shave my head at noon with a double-edged razor. No water or cream and the sound of the blade on hair on skin on endless bone breaks the heart. Every action has a consequence: all this life, water- white writs knotted up in stranded light. I wash away the blood and try again to be a simple man.
JOSHUA CHRIS BOUCHARD is the author of *BURN DIARY* (2023, Wolsak and Wynn). His chapbook, *Let This Be the End of Me* (2018, Bad Books), was shortlisted for a bpNichol Chapbook Award. He wrote and co-wrote four other chapbooks, and his poetry appears in *The Ampersand Review*, *Event*, *CV2*, *Poetry Is Dead*, *PRISM international*, and more.Interested in being a Fellow Traveller? Email your poetry, prose, visual art, etc. to discordia.sucks@gmail.com. We pay (not much), and pieces are collected a few times a year in a small print edition.
Fellow Travellers “Eyes” banner adapted from Opal Louis Nations’ “An Eyeball Alphabet” (1980).
RELATED