the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 490, April 22,
2004
Blacksnake
(Thaonawyuthe, 1760-1859)
“During one’s scientific lifetime a fund of observations and
knowledge is accumulated that has not been formally investigated and
sufficiently documented for publication in journals—there is never enough time.
This information needs to be passed along to prevent its loss, although such
material should be transmitted with the caveat that further study and
documentation are necessary prior to its acceptance to the scientific
community.”
—Raymond T. Bauer, Remarkable Shrimps: Adaptations and Natural
History of the Carideans
Twelve
She’s twelve, and that, I suppose gives her license to
bounce between extremes. Most of the time, this isn’t so disturbing. I remember
what it was like to be a kid. But in one thing, it is not so easy to take: One
moment, I am the hero, the greatest guy who ever lived. The next, I am the
embodiment of evil.
In my own case, I didn’t really have the room to hate
or love my dad. He was a stern, arbitrary, and distant guy who was fed up with
his kids most of the time. As long as we behaved exactly the way he wanted at
the time he wanted, he could care less.
It wasn’t until later, I was able to become mature in
ways he could not teach me. Only then could I engender a good, healthy anger
and hatred that allowed me to break away from him completely. Of course, the
resentment produce enough pain to force me to get over myself.
I guess I’m still getting over it, and he doesn’t
make it that easy because he still wants to be in control. But more and more,
I’m accepting that he’s going to be that way.
For my twelve year old, I think I can be stand up.
I’m the guy she can hate, love, hate. I think that’s what kids now are supposed
to do—find ways to break away and grow up. I just hope it’s part of the deal to
be frightened that they never get over themselves and leave you with a broken
heart.
still
after a certain age,
a man begins to thirst
for the hush that comes
when the ambulance arrives
at the accident
it is the silence
of an angler’s boat
skid to a halt
against a sandbar,
or the automatic door
slid shit against
jet engines
a moment when a man’s grip
doesn’t have to be as tight
and he doesn’t have to keep
himself and the world
together
it happens in the morning
when school begins
promptly at eight
and sometimes
in the afternoon
when the lawn man pushes
the stop button
on his mower
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It’s so gay
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