Daddy's Mud (Poetic Prose)

Daddy’s Mud
((or, To Lose a Father) (Poetic Prose))


When you were a boy, you were good all the time. No wonder you grew up with such hate in you for me. Who could forgive a father who had faults—you tried, really tried to love me as an adult, but it was ((was it not)(live or die?)) when I died inside of you, you rose—as if no one was looking: maybe that bad boy was only hiding. Maybe now you could fly? You were all alone—running your way out of the rain. And I think you were afraid for a minute here and there—but so was I, I suppose, but being an adult, it doesn’t count. You were smart to pretend to go to sleep even though your mother got so depressed (locked yourself in the bathroom; ran out of the house), lest you hid inside a cave. I sat in a bar, as if I went drowning in a big river, as if I was never going to come up, and I believe that grew old for you. Neither you nor I could wash all that river mud off. Daddy’s mud …. I didn’t want for you to get a little mud on your cloths, I never figured you’d not blow out the match—and it burnt your heart for me.

You were special when you were both born—nineteen minutes apart—you both were like one (with separate hearts and souls: precious as pearls and gold). My head went upside down, or the ceiling did, when we lived, side by side. I suppose now—now when I look back, we were all upside down. I can see your little feet and faces, heads balled like eggs. That’s when I was young, and you were grownup, now you are like me, or like I was, and right now that’s how it is. Who do we think we are anyhow? We never say we just keep pounding nails into our hearts and souls, digging trenches, as if for a battle, —thinking it’s the easy way (take the pain and you don’t have to explain; but life is short, and the grave is not far away for all of us). We say: until then, until this, no, after that, and so on—you just don’t know—you want to love, but have too much hate to love—it’s not easy is it? The important thing for me is (and I imagine for you): stop looking at the ceiling, life isn’t there—; you were so long the children that sang when you were not quite sure—now you don’t anymore.

For Cody and Shawn
No: 5852 (10-22-2010)