Thread: O Father
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Old 08-23-2015, 08:46 PM   #1
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Default O Father

my

father left home before becoming a man
at age 16. hugged his brother once and hopped in his van
pseudo Kerouac freelance pursuing faraway lands
36-cent cigarettes and 6-string case in his hand
Aunt Susie at rehearsal. swan lake. nightingale dancing
while their parents sat in leather loveseats, emptying glasses
stony mansion. Lincoln park. late 60's grainy refraction
interior designers and a maid for the mattress
full-time indentured babysitter paid for distraction
who taught my papa language in her Englewood accent
my father left home without a word of goodbye
to the man who taught him hate and how to fasten a tie
made him cut his ponytail and straighten his spine
curling fists like snarling lips to bridge the divide
private schools and jaguars for saturday's ride
slacks and loafers, cherrywood the hallways inside
a home supported by pride. whiskey wisdom and wine
Grandma took her misery on rocks with a lime
her oldest son left without a thought on his mind
fighting back teardrops as he shifts into drive
found himself Milwaukee-bound and feeling alive
locked the motel door. laid in bed and he cried
for the sake of ventilation. 2 parents, 20 patients
psychiatrists with offices and bars in their basement
wealthy vagrants. thin oasis next to Michigan sands
less generational gap. more so distant attachment
it was Summertime in June when all the flowers are bright
perfuming 2-wheel voyages back home every night
Grandpa smashed the records that my father would buy
Beatles vs. Beethoven when the volume was high
i was taught that you can never run away from your past
less shape-shift, and more so generational gap
my father gigged the city for a pocket of cash
my childhood was microphones and ashtrays and amps
but fleeing from his father was a father-to-be
i can't forget November 4th, 2003
we watched my Grandpa die inside a hospital sheet
telling papa he had tried to be the best he could be
held hands. their silence echoing as loud as a scream
staring at each other. lost inside of a dream
they were nothing alike but shared this moment the same
there's no one to blame. the only constant is change
so they say. acculturated in a spectrum of gray
children never follow everything their fathers will say
my son left home the other day and never returned
while i sat inside the basement with a camel to burn
drowned in office politics and woodford reserve
marveling how everything continues to turn
in circular swerving motions on a singular spoke
revolving repetitive via youth in revolt.





DEADMAN
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