Don’t read this poem. It’s not good and it doesn’t make sense. There are better things you should be doing with your time.
The bond between father and son is toxic.
Either we want to be better than our fathers
or we do all we can to be different from them.
What if I decide to be the same man he is,
with the same life,
the same endless heartbreak and a vision
limited to a vista, which has the faces of our women
staring at us like windows, and a rectangle of
incandescent light throbbing in the distance, saying
come. Walk forward and don’t look around you.
Keep still and walk. Don’t stop moving. Never question.
Because the faces of the women who’ve hurt you
are only faces, your memories of them only memories.
They are nothing but wind. But if you keep obsessing about them
you will turn to dust. My father is dust. I am slowly getting there myself.
Written at 12:29 in the afternoon, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while thinking of a ham and swiss sandwich.