June 16 by The Running Son
ҳ̸Ҳ̸ҳ the n⊙n-father favoًr ҳ̸Ҳ̸ҳ
My father bowed his head, and I held
my breath. He said, “steady is the man
who works his hands to win his bread.
No gamble will put the odds in your favor
since you lead me to this bed you made your
heaven, made your savior blanket,
said ‘feed me’, one thumb stuck
to that hole in your head.” So… seedy
desert low rent candlelit feted behavior
kept me from flavoring family gatherings, I guess.
Hmm. Couldn’t handle the family thing.
Couldn’t saddle my gelding for all the sweet talk
lathering I lavished at her, those wild eyes
turned me back ashen, attacking
desert-rats for dishonoring my stables,
and the building efforts at stability in all my fables.
There is a cradle in my story—a glorious manger,
and a table for wisdom tonics
and danger supplements and later stage underpants
for when I, up and out of the cradle, dance,
making baby faces during tasteless high-horse rants.
It’s then I lose all my chances
at filling his steps, those hour-glass representations
of the perfection I have undertaken, left
papery and crumpled now, to be swept,
dumped, and never again allowed to tumble out
and clutter those precious outlines: the wire-frame
paths we walked down; town trips
avoiding downdrafts and pressure systems
the threat of townships withering,
and of lidded eyes killing
family ties. Bloodlines drown
adopted children’s cries
bow your god-sized head,
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.