[e11even]

"What, boy?! You some kinda fag 'er somethin'?!"
Wyatt's dad, madly disgusted, gnashed at his son with
Every offensive manly obstruction to his confidence and ego.
Tear streams reflecting hurt of this evil flowed, each tremble a depot
of pain. Years of fatherly values to crease him his way
Only made wrinkles and frays. Prostitutes, connotations of his thinking he's gay,
and advertising this made growing up aweful.
"I don't need a hooker, Dad! I'm 12! Plus I have a girlfriend in homeroom..."
"Yer a damn liar, boy! Ain't no lil cryin' sissy gonna attract nothin'!
Do a fuckin' pushup. Drink a beer. Better yet, you little fudger...
GET THE FUCK OUT! No queers allowed!" A swift slap seared his jowls
And 12 year old Wyatt was abandoned under the night's clearest clouds.
Was that the sincerest tout? Is manliness to deny emotion?
Is femininity this implied erosion? Is 'gay' a sickness to be supplied a potion?

No matter the case or the cancer, though,
Because it didn't take long to find the antidote.

10 yrs later. Wyatt Eugene Clemons Sr. was half senile, alone.
A foreign car horn less than three miles from home
Made him anxious. Tennessee's famous for party raids by gang kids.
A late model chevy crept up and he aimed in. A .308 was their invitation.
"Mr. Clemons, Sir?" A supple blonde's salutation softened his grit.
"Yep! That I am! And who might I call you miss...?" Licking his lips.
"Winona Brooks. I know your son, Wyatt Jr. This him?"
Eyeing the polaroid proof through its glint restored his prior crudeness within.
"How can I forget the poor crying faggot..." Disdain evident.
But there was a hurt. He was a father with no heirs, heiresses,
Or spouse. Since disowning his son there was an air of regret in this house,
And a dire need to ask questions about the young man's whereabouts.

"So what brings you 'round here, Ma'am?" Watching her crossed legs.
"Your son has been long dead. He was obsessed with not being strong bred,
And asked if I could clear the qualms left between you two."
Confused, "When did he meet you? Truth. Tell a lie and I'll demean you too!"
"We were together shortly after you left him. He always asked strange questions
Like, Am I what a woman would best fit? Am I straight? Is emotion sex-strict?"
"Look, Winona. I'm sure he was jokin' 'bout this sex shit, but he's dead now...
So what of it with your next fling? You into givin' head? How's my bed sound?"
"You're a creep. You always were, and always will be."
"You don't know me to say that. You women kill me.
I bet i'm on the set of -A Predator n' yer tryna film me... right?!
Gimme yer ID. If you don't wanna die you can be with me tonight..."
Winona, in his gunsight, gave him the card. He stared at her hard.
The resemblance was remarkably hard to match. He was irreversibly scarred.
His knees buckled, on all fours cursing his lord in whispers...
Wet blotches painted the hardwood in the kitchen
As he wept uncontrollably, wishing he had stopped it.
"Why? Why, Wyatt?! I was jokin' witya! Why'd you go n' chop it?"
"I didn't. I put your rationale together. Why be called a fag
When I can be a woman and be accepted for emotional snags?
We all have feelings, Dad. I 'fixed' your problem with me.
You were even attracted to my physique and titties!
Your own son. Does it hurt the very fabric
of your miserable existence, Hun? This is a classic
case of revenge. The sun shines, yet your dark soul plummets,
Hey, Dad! Why cry? You some kinda fag 'er somethin'?!"