The Aches Of Carrying The Dead

my wrist shakes
carpal tunnel  
from that time the post in the back yard
broke it and my father beat the shit
out of me  
for crying because men don’t cry
and hospital was days away
from the heavy bag
honing knock out shots  
throwing with the fury of an arrow riddle berserker
as if my last deeds in life will be echoed
through the ages of wrist-spraining-shots into dented leather
 
I’ve been taught so often how little
I matter unless I’m doing  
so I bury it using an excavator
my tears now  
just clenched-jaw rage
and maybe I’ll be able to chew without it clicking one day
 
I switch to my left hand
because I’m sick of spilling drinks  
on my shirt
my knee hurts as cartilage grinds against  
cartilage the reconstruction barely hanging on
because I throw myself head first
into agony and the pain is the only way
I know I’m alive
it’s real and
so I crunch and grind my way through
another 17 hours on unforgiving concrete  
while lifting and bending sweat pouring
dust scrabbling in the air like motes of my
own sadness hanging in prisms of UV-radiation
 
my back on fire  
because it carries the weight of worlds
these last strangled gasp of words  
a way of preserving a moment of weakness
that I sacrifice to the ether
because no one cares about how I feel
they only care for what I can produce
how much for
and when can I be there
 
they pay for my pain
with smiles as they hand over  
cash I burn on kids that don’t appreciate
that dying young is harder than it looks
and they have everything I own on this earth
and it’s still not enough
 
because I have to carry the pain of generations
of failures
carrying the dead things
burying them inside the hollow cavern of my chest
and holding them there
like a stone of contrition
and some days it’s the only comfort I have
because it’s cold on my inflamed skin