It's been quite some time since I've seen my father.

He rests like the mask of a retired luchador;

a soft, withering hero's costume of my childhood.

I know I don't talk about him much;

it's not like you ever ask what he was like anyway.

My uncles and aunts who used to shine like diamonds

when talking about him, have corroded over time;

stuck in the dying art of living.

I used to be superstitious you know.

Each time I visited the cemetery

I'd make **** sure I wouldn't walk over his

grave.

I can still remember the expression his face would make

when he got angry with me.

I feel that demon seethe within when I don't get my way.

And I never, ever get my way.

So what gives?

Pay a visit, let my words rise and fall in the afternoon air;

Feel the hopelessness of communication; each word

a petal that's been torn off with no regard and roughly

placed on a half-assed craft.

At least there is a consistent mood I can depend on;

where every question remains unanswered;

a predicable outcome;

always a safe bet.