on my dad's birthday.

M.R. nov. 5, 1934- 2005.

 

 

 

Oh Dad, not today. With the water still boiling

for your instant Sanka, with the heavy sugar, near.

Your stories of a time, magical,

you told us when coffee was a thing that

would percolate, and we raced to find the

objects in the universe a simple soul could

pass through a permeable substance, but gave

in to the half-truth of war. Of men being blown apart

and others picking up their unhooked pieces

like the tracks of the Lionel train, and it's crazy

to think just how long ago, everything that happened,

happened. But I'm so glade you held onto

those stories till the end and not give way to the

netherworld  of dementia, where as i've been told,

is the third edition of the volume you cant end

no matter how alphabetical the index. And that

we wrapped your stink  in the air of a diapered

sarcophagus, powdered your a*s like a pan

of raised biscuits, we did so out of the

unstated passion; out of the  unspoken site of the

testicles that produced us. It is love old man,

not the love of old men. And I think of the nights

when the plot of the poems I tried to write were lost,

forever lost to never return to me, just float in the air

with the particulate of your love making, with your

raw, Camel cigarette twang

launching the full light, the Black boy of dreams;

The English Leather,

The Brute after shave, spash on of my youth.

Reviews

[Emily B]

miracles can sometimes be measured in words by those who believe

i don't know what it means, i just made it up

[SHEEMA HUQ]

You depict every memory very powerfully and assert your love wit vigour, a fine tribute here.

[Jordan Bryant]

I love everything about this. You have the perfect tone.

[writing mojo]

WOW! this ode to your father is what I wish i could express to my dad..again your closet bones and memory elixirs make the best noises when shaken by night not daylight stirred...amazing piece