It’s empty again
I’ve wiggled the plug once more
the bottle has given wing
to blurry shadows of my life.
An unclear childhood mixed
with a manifold of colors
drizzling down my eyes
it’s hard not to know
not to wonder
who fathered this hapless being.
In the End
In the end man became calloused
from walking the tightrope of existence
thinking he was right and no one else.
Thus God said it was good
and man took a woman by her hair
beating her until she spit children
bloodying her hope, breaking her spirit.
God said so be it
it is good.
Let us give praise to the heavens.
Take a peek
she said smiling
I peeked I saw
a small yellow butterfly
its small fingered cage
Can I keep it?
will the world be tomorrow?
Webs of tubes engulf you my blood son, my child born red faced and crying. I watch as you fight for life wishing for death. I cry. I die each time your fog filled eyes shed salty drops of regret. Mistakes, we all make them. I felt certain you would take your last breath. My mind screamed “No,” but would not relay the desperation to my mouth. Your eyes were the eyes of the little boy that rode atop my shoulders at grocery stores, Malls, and through the woods surrounding our old home. They were the eyes of the quiet child who listened intently to clever stories by Dr. Seuss. They are your eyes my dearest boy and may they never close forever.
Each time a friend, a brother, or sister asks “how’s he doing,” I choke. I choke for words, but they are covered never to be unearthed. Instead of speaking, I make a groaning sound like a steel ship sinking in treacherous ocean waters. My throat swells and shuts out the thrusting air of life. My eyes pour a sea full of brine. What do I say? I say nothing. I cannot muster a thought without exposing my loss of hope. The words finally squeeze through my larynx, “He’s doing better.” Hope to me now is a deep well and any coin tossed into its bowels reverberates with the sound of all my failures as a father, as a friend.
I am detached from the world around me. I am invisible. I tell myself that I deserve a better Karma, but know better. I deserve what I have. You my son deserve a better Karma, a better end to your story. Your story is not over. Soon you will no longer be the boy living mechanically. Yet I will remain the father who lives invisibly within a world that requires social obedience, social presence, and social adjustments. How long can we attend to our unwanted and unneeded expectations? You and I have much in common my little blue eyed baby boy. We are invisible and living mechanically. Why? We will have much to talk about when you awake. You will awake.