08-23-2015, 08:46 PM | #1 |
living
Join Date: Jan 2013
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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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Zack Wicks for president |
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