6.5.17

how many soulless men

must occupy

our lives? It frightens me.

I have seen a soulless man,

ate with him, watched him

melt into his chair

like dough, depressed,

beyond depressed, relieved

possibly at the thought

of death, not tonight,

not tomorrow, maybe,

not in ten or a hundred days,

but the remainder of his life

is countable in years, and

he waits, nothing more.

he waits and suffers delusion,

a deluge of drink, all the glass

cups in his house stained

as if by day they held

cranberries. help,

is what he wants to say,

but instead he says,

Did I leave a bottle

of wine at your house? What day

was it that I left that bottle there?

Could I have it back?

I hate him.

I hate my father, he says.

I wish that he’d go back home.

I wish he knew how wrong he was

to leave a child of ten

alone in the world,

not yet prepared

for the suffocation of lovelessness.

but I made it out fine, he says. Didn’t I?

I’m better

now

than I ever have been,

and to be honest I’d rather

die than go to work tomorrow.

I need two weeks off

and a blow job. I need

two weeks of nothing

but blowjobs from a nameless women,

whose name disintegrated

when her hope did, years ago,

a women who looks how I feel inside,

a women who will love me

as I break her.

this world is too short

and life too enormous to worry

about fathers and sons. I want

that bottle back. And also,

so you know,

dinner

was

shit.

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Written at 10:50 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.