sad suburban father’s

There’s a black cloud hanging over

the boys playing in the park

While they argue who is correct

mothers watch them from afar

Now there’s Billy screaming loudly

clawing at this boy named Mark

Who his mother she is absent

somewhere screaming in the dark.

It’s a Sunday what a fun day

boy let’s pass the ball around

He’s a shy son name is Ricky

staring at his father now

He is pitching like a Yankee

throwing hard with all his might

All the while there is Ricky

scared to death screaming inside.

There are blue jays singing robins

bugs and inchworms puffy clouds

On the playground there are children

swinging madly laughing loud

Cause it’s Sunday what a fun day

to be playing in the park

Except for Ricky, Billy’s mother

and Mark crying in the dark.

Now the children they all line up

ice cream bells ring all around

He’s a kind man I mean probably

he just smiles at the crowd

Screw-ball sundaes chocolate cookies

candy gleaming in his hand

For the children ask no questions

they just stand and stand and stand.

Now the mothers call the boys in

from the awful looking cloud

Billy’s mother reprimands him

as Mark’s mother has a cow

Oh your father she is shouting

Ricky hears her from afar

As his father whips a fast one

knocking Ricky to the ground.

There are stars now spinning circles

sending shivers down Mark’s spine

While his father who is furious

warns him hell boy you’ll be fine

As Mark stands and sees the dark cloud

fill with light ready to burst

Cats and dogs rain down around him

he thinks what’s he who’s on first.

So the moral of this story

is not what keeps you in line

It’s the people in the park who

I do not wish to define

They are people who like people

look quite normal in the park

While the sad suburban father’s

dingle dangle in the dark.

The saint in me is still a sinners son

I look at then

and I see me now

There’s people chanting

standing in a crowd

I wanna join in

try to help them out

But my mouth’s cashed checks

that just seem to bounce

Who be it that you try to believe

Who always turns into a parody

Now brush your teeth and try to behave

They’re all gonna hate you eventually

I look at then

but still see myself

Eyes wide shut

full of fear and doubt

She plucked the fruit

from the apple tree

As I stood staring

still I couldn’t believe

Who be it that you try to become

The saint in me is still a sinners son

Who be it that you try to believe

Now you’re all dressed up living a fantasy

I look at now

like she saw me then

All fed up

fist balled paper and pen

There’s dishes broken

on the kitchen floor

The serpent speaks

in tongues I can’t ignore

Who be it that you thought you saw in me

A break fix and used return policy

Who be it that I thought I saw in you

But what difference does it make there’s an election soon

There is so much greatness to be had.

There is so much
greatness to be had.
When did you forget that?
My son, if I told you this
would you listen?
I think not, because I didn’t.
So I will wait for you
to figure it out
the only way you know how.
And it’s there
that you will remember
what life was like
before you chose to walk away.

Another word to an unborn son

Some day
out of nowhere
your mood
will shift
from one hundred percent
to zero,

and you will feel sad

and you will feel weak

and you will feel vulnerable,

and that’s good
that’s natural
that’s life,
so get used to it,
it’s a beautiful thing
even when it hurts most.

The words I’d say to an unborn son.

If you’re not ready to let go,

then don’t.

Hold on as long as you need,

and then some.

These are words I’d say,

to an unborn son.

If it seems repetitive,

that’s good.

If it hurts in a hundred different ways,

it’s supposed to.

If you don’t want to smile,

let them see you frown.

These are the words,

I’d say.

Does it get easier,

at times.

Should you forget,

never.

Is it your fault,

no.

The words I’d say are these.

Life will kick your ass.

Love will break your heart.

Death will drug your senses.

With the strength of a mother’s love,

I would say.

You are your father’s child,

but make no mistake,

you are not your father.

The King’s Sad Song.

The failed King sat on his throne.

His Queen had already fled.

Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought

of who would bring him his dinner tonight.

The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.

As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.

And no matter how much blood was shed,

his people showed no sign of stopping.

It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.

He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.

It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.

It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.

Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.

What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.

I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.

Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?

He then took note, that he was alone in his castle.  How puzzling he thought.

But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.

A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.

Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.

Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.

It went something like this.

My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.

 

 

I’m still dealing with your ghost.

Please stop reading if you’ve heard this before.

It’s been 15 years since.

And I’m still holding onto a ghost.

15 god damn years.

And I’m still crying in a coffee shop.

I wasn’t even 15.

And you sure as hell weren’t a Boy Scout,

so who tied the noose?

I want to know what type of knot you used.

It’s been 15 years.

And I want answers.

Answers that I’ll never receive.

I want an apology.

You son-of-a-bitch.

How embarrassed you must have been.

I wasn’t even 15.

And they don’t even know the half of it.

And here I am again.

Wasting my energy on this endless sadness.

Because you couldn’t hack it.

Towards the end they say you were over medicated.

Well it’s been 15 years.

And it’s probably the reason I don’t even like to take aspirin.

It’s just that over 15 years it’s been hard to explain.

Like when you come right out and say it.

He.  Committed.  Suicide.

Kids used to awkwardly laugh at first and then realize I wasn’t lying.

And suddenly everyone’s sorry.

Suddenly I have to act sad.

Or act like it’s fine.

Nobody wants to see you break down in front of them.

Nobody wants to know your whole life story.

15 god damn years and I’m blubbering like a baby.

Screaming at the top of my lungs – drunk.

So if you’ve heard this before please stop reading.

Because I’m sure I’ve said it.

I’m as sure as I was 15 years ago.

Lost.

Because you don’t get custody after biting someone on the face.

And I don’t get answers.

I don’t get an apology.

Even after 15 years.

I’m still dealing with your ghost.