Hole in the Heart Diaries

dad’s obit

I like to read obituaries. I like to read between the lines. Guess I like sad stories.Some dead persons, though, have had charmed lives, free of poverty, physical ugliness, racism. Hard to imagine. Is fictionalizing is ok, but outright lying is not? How would one get caught in a lie such as that? Who would press charges? Is it a misdemeanor or felonious?

My mother died in August. My father died in last month. I was estranged from them until the very, very end. As if I had any control over such epics. I feel newborn sometimes; I have certainly never understood reincarnation and the feeling of deja vu.I t always feels like the first time to me. Unexpectedly raw.

When all the boomers were being born, we were sure to be writing the rules ourselves, handed the purse,drawing a bead on time itself. It would never go backwards from here. Of course it was the boys with the lion’s share. They would grow to be what every father had always wanted, sure cocks-men with a benevolent side, lusty, fair and long-lived. Their daughters would be at peace with their beauty and grace.The very ground beneath their feet would be forever conquered.They’d leave the Earth for distant stars and place their feet on the necks of whoever lived there.

That’s a lot to live up to, and many of us disappointed. All our parents ever really had was a belief in the superiority of their progeny. They were so, so wrong. I hope they can see now the narrow-mindedness of their monotheism.

That’s real unlikely.

I am the reckless Queen of Cauldrons
My hair the color of just another sea
Which is the color of an iguana’s tail
While it drowns the lacy winter moon.

I have spoken the ancient willow chant.
Plucking the frosty teeth from an angel
By birthing with heat a gray generation
Of souls fired by the light of the stars.

I have angered the mighty pleasure god
Ripped the bleeding heart from his chest
While shouting aloud through the trinity
Of cannabinoids, benzos, and booze.

I’ve longed for the most astonishing taste
While licking salt from icy concrete.
Biscuits and gravy and pencil shavings, maybe
Asking only for mercy, reverence, and chai.

I have frequently left this planet and plane.
Traveled with ignoble speed beyond thought
Beyond grace, then, to return with a crash like
Trash face first in a warm denim crotch.

I have swept clean the pantry of pulchritude
Beating the drum of all sisterhood firm.
Blackbird’s discord notwithstanding here,
ZOOM! Hit right between the sweet Jesus eyes.

I am velvet and thistles and ink and release
From the meeting of red sky and wind
Pinching shut my grape seed lips
Listening for the band to begin.

I am the zesty Queen of Cauldrons
My hair the color of just another sea
Which is the color of an iguana’s tail
While it drowns the lacy winter moon.

Tempting to fly,
Bitter strings attached,
Never soars long