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