Black coffee
2 eggs looking at you
buttered Wonder bread
morning paper
horn rimmed glasses.
neatly pressed short sleeve summer shirt, with a Fruit of the Loom tank.
work trousers and oil resistant black shoes
Old Spice, and Brylcream
Howdy Doody in the background
the screen door slams
a white Ford Farlane 500 starts up and pulls away

awaiting the sound of the Ford
wash up for dinner
pork chops, sauerkraut
applesauce
green beans
evening paper
maybe the Flintstones or Dragnet, but always the Friday Night Fights
late night visits to the fridge for a sip of Malox.

My Father does not believe there is a heaven, or hell
he says when you die, you just die.
But I don't believe he ever knowingly lied to me.
He voted for George Wallace, but he also Voted for Barack Obama, twice.
He served in the Army during World War II, and still cooks hash brown potatoes every Tuesday night for his local American Legion, where he also plays poker and most of the time wins. When I asked him how to win at poker, he'd smile and say... "Luck." When I asked him how do I get some Luck, he said "count your cards."
He doesn't want a funeral, no music, no wake, no one to say anything about him. He wants to donate his body to science. And cremate the rest.
He says, "shut up and let people tell you who they are."
"Everybody is OK son , most don't know it though."
"Never count your money in public."
He has a small tin on the kitchen counter full of twist ties, hundreds of them.
There are shelves in the basement full of canned food and paper goods.
Depressionites are always ready for the next one.
When my Father and Mother go to their class reunion, they are the only ones left in their class.
I asked him what was the hardest thing about being 95, and both of them said, "all of our friends are gone, all of them."
My Father is 95 this year.

Happy Father's Day Dad

*Thank you for letting me ramble here, I feel so much better. I am ready to have my eggs and coffee now."

I had a father,
he was a kind man.
I'm not the kind of man
he was.

I try hard,
sometimes I fail.
I still look for him
in the mirror.

He fought two wars;
didn't make him strong.
He did that on his own;
he fought his own wars.

Looking back
now that he's gone,
I have to stop and wonder
what was in the water.

My old man
was the kind of man
that someday I hope to see
in the mirror.

r ~ 6/14/14

I am so sorry.
I am never there for anyone.
I just keep running.
I can’t stop.
I run from everything and everyone.
I push **** down.
I pretend it doesn’t bother me.
I fake it.
I put masks on all seven heads.
I mash them into one.
I force others to see someone else.
I am too hideous to look at.
I will burn them if they see.
I play with them too.
I entertain myself by manipulating them.
I would be ****** to death if they ever saw what I do to them.
I lie.
I torture.
I ******.
I become invisible beneath the smiles and no one suspects a **** thing.
I cover my hands in blood.
I use those hands to stab.
I use those hands to twist the knife.
I use those hands to hold back their heads so I can watch the light leave their eyes as their bodies convulse and collapse.
I use those hands to tear through their still-warm chests and to rip out their hearts because I am too tainted, too dark, to empty, to be able to grasp a soul.
I take them, and I run.
I realize now: it is not because I can’t stop.
It is because I won’t.
And now I understand:
I am not that sorry.

How much longer must I jail here;
imprisonment for what length of time?
Rails block the path I would wish to take,
had the choice to leap been truly mine.

How much longer must I starve here,
lasting out my days alive?
Until you find there is some mistake,
release the chains, and let me dive.

How much longer can I stand here,
permitting you to take my blame?
When all you have done is try to save me,
in hushed whispers to calm my flame.

How much longer could I think here,
perceive the crashing fall to land?
Why can you not let me shuffle forward
to break my hour glass of sand?