Poem For Dad
My brother called me up on the phone and said Hey Dan dad called me up again. He’s worried about you again, man. Isn’t it about time you started doing something with your life? Like, you know, get it together man, pull it together. Get a life. You’re gonna give dad a fucking heart attack for chrissakes.
I am together, man. This is my life. I push around words for a living. I’m a professional word pusher. And if you don’t like it why don’t you just pick up a dictionary, pick out a word and go shove it up your ass, man. And I hung up.
Let me point this one out for you. Nothing I write is fake. Nothing I write is true. But that one, that one’s a lie.
It’s the foreverness. It’s the day my dad died and I’m not picking up his telephone call because I’m chasing a chick. It’s the ever since that day my hands shake when I hold things.
And I remember I remember being little with my brother not wanting to wake up in the morning, my dad walking into the room, Up and at em boys up and at em, he’d come right from bed where he slept naked, I remember thinking what a huge fucking dick he had, and it would wag back and forth as he moved from my brother’s bed to mine, no glasses on, liable to bump into any number of things.
Read the Rumpus Review of The Ancient Book of Hip.
