my father didn’t leave
a suicide note
but his abrupt departure
condemned me
to write thousands of them
in my head
Tag: Dysfunction
Categories
broom in hand
we southerners
have perfected the art
of filtering grand disappointment
through exquisite love
hell
we all have a special oriental rug
just for sweeping things under
Categories
shelf life
no matter how many
selfies you thrust
into the world
your father
still
won’t love you
Categories
lamentation
the greatest sorrow
of a daughter
is surely
the madness
of her father
he showed up drunk
at 59 years old
.
to pick me up
from the hospital
with another gallon
of wild turkey tossed in the back seat
he had bought
along with
fetid red Marlboros
on the five mile way
.
at that moment
i was no longer certain
who had run out of excuses
him
or me
.
as
i have much more
to lose
than two units
of blood
Categories
piss shiver
perverse as you are
and full of gastronomic fascination
you could never accept
that i enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning
whilst reading in the bathroom
such bad form
so disgusting you would say
now here i sit smiling ironically
sipping french roast
upon my white throne’s full glory
ignoring victorian pornography
lustfully remembering the day
i stood behind you above the waterfall
in grace lord park
my arms wrapped around your chest
chin resting on your shoulder
leaning into the fence
hind sight mulling
you would have looked so lovely
wearing a chloroform soaked rag
before i saw
the video of you online
a chubby white man awkwardly wearing
gold platform stripper heels
squatting over the biggest suction cup dildo
i’ve ever seen
jauntily fucking yourself in the ass
taking it into your black whole like a champ
and all i could think
is now i know
exactly what i want on my christmas cards
i didn’t know to kill you then
so i must do it with my pen
ah the thought warms me
into a glorious piss shiver
You, insidious creature,
tell me how the fuck is it
you can make a daisy
mean
death?
i could hurt myself with you
given enough bourbon
and a decent suit
city lights
drawing down the moon
on a properly placed back in time
saturday night
if you didn’t remind so damned much
of my first husband
back then i could claim being 16
a ran away to the real world too soon
starry eyed twat
with straight A’s
and no street smarts
unable to discern the difference
between a pedophile and a suitor
i’m a daily communicant with that mistake
no, baby, lesson learned
you’re a used car lot wearing armani shoes
a lizard brain
in a gold chain
forked tongue slipping past
your greasy lips
you smell like turpentine
and unpaid child support
he set about to kill me
in my early 30’s
by teaching me
how to drink
Wild Turkey in the morning
while chanting the three rules of writing
write what you know
write like you have no mother
there are no other rules
while i preeshated it at the time
he always wanted me to be less me
how adorable
so
i’m adding a few rules
write like you have no god
write like you have nothing to lose
write like you have never been to the sea
i smile an older smile and shake my head
warm in the knowledge
most writers behave like shitty teenage girls
and we shouldn’t take ourselves
so fucking seriously
i remember sitting
in your provisionally furnished
unliving room
piled high with alphabetized stacks
of your personal and professional failures
balanced atop a neurotic collection
of pizza boxes
and coffee cans welded
into homemade torture devices
watching you waller bare assed
on your unfortunate chair
sipping coffee smoking pot
planning on bourbon
complaining no one takes your abuse
in a manner that suits your liking
i found myself wishing to be in a place
with anyone but you
to be anywhere but there
shaking out a rug
airing a mattress
applying pine sol to the length of route 80
to cleanse the earth
of your doomsday pestilence
knowing myself to be a fool
for buying into your bottom shelf poems
and cock strong swagger
my feet swiftly found an escape tunnel
but i kept a picture of you
in your dirtiest jeans
exposing your minimalist views
on having teeth
then drove into the city
had it blown up parade balloon size
and hung it up like scarecrow
a warning to all women
over the cosmetics counter at macy’s