Elegy to a father

My father

 

Died and gone to hell,

            I hope.

 Son of a b***h of a father left

   on empty, his legacy notably nothing

save four noble children broken

 and a run down doublewide, didn’t bid

me adieu, say auf weidersehen,

or even kiss my a*s,

the mother f****r,

 not that I care, we never talked

in twenty years, but my head

swims in sweet confusion, aches

 for a few bytes of rational

   reasoning

 to explain

    this pain inside me.

 

He left me years ago really, about 52

            I could say, right after a little

sperm went swimming

  innocently up a surprised uterus

What grand accomplishment! Herculean effort on

his part

was what I got

once.

Aluminum combs and patent leather angst

  his tools to train me, prepare me

for the ugly leftovers the serotonin

 tsunamis

all washed up.

 

He diddled with his kin,

 this sin I can’t forgive him. I am

not my Father

who farts in heaven, I am not

 possessed

   by blackeyed faith,

only karmic knowledge that

 Beano works and eternity is

 a long, long time. Nor am I from

West Virginia, some blackwoods holler

   called Deliverance no doubt, where frosty

fall morns echo a hog’s squeal, and a

broadhead properly delivered is

    the simple cure

       for absolute passion.

 

I do care I always wondered

why I was so useless, a jackass

  in his own words,

what could I have done,

kept him

  from his science-fiction,

    his smoked pork chops

and mac and powdered cheese.

I always wandered

  lost, a remittance man of sorts sailing

 astray, pondering storms and

   seas and Freudian slips.

I never wondered

     if he loved me.

 

Yet I seethe red inside

strangely

 as I seek out my brave

  new world like some special

stranger lost and cursing

 the sunscorched sands of San Lorenzo isle.

My stomach turns

 over as a restless dead

   under spring green grass, churns over

tumultuously like a cement mixer with

a bad bearing turns needy,

  needing a Maalox moment

of soothing clarity.

 

But I am wonderfully clear

now I am me

 not my father.

At the end of the days

all I ever wanted

was his 1911.

I wanted him though

 to know

    too I am empty, not a Father

thanks to him

I am ending now

 this

  genetic cesspool.

I want him to know

he is done.

Reviews

[ohsograceful]

the use of jarring words in a flowing rhythm adds to the anger. Well composed, and obviously felt

[Joe M.]

I was pissed. Thank you.

[RomaJ]

This is very beautifully written. The message is very powerful and I can't imagine the pain or the anger or emotions that inspired this piece. "But I am wonderfully clear, now I am me, not my father"' well said. It's sad during his last days he didn't try to make things right. I hope you find peace and happiness.

[Joe M.]

Thank you for the kind words.