On Fathers

       Cursed by the Gods these Titans, these Olympians amongst mortals hang in their packs like geese, flying in v-neck formations- stench of smoke, stale booze wafting all around them. Kicking dogs, contemplating their packages, their coiffures in every window's reflection. Graying of face, sagging around the waist- a curlicue mustache marks one’s pride. And as these pillars of strength rummage through your sock drawer, looking for funds to take to the track, their mission is two-fold: for this is also a lesson in man's depravity, in humiliation. Like when you brought your first girlfriend home- how his x-ray eyes peeled off all of her garments, those continuous invitations to sit on his lap. Leaving all the restrooms reeking of mincemeat pie, forcing Mothers to purchase t-bone steaks with food stamps. Misunderstood genius scratching his ass up against a light pole- exhibiting a fiery hatred at the mention of 'Brothers'- one drink and we emerge into his world of violence. Cool, detached- spreading that incommunicative disease all about- except for when they are relating their epic tales of what it takes to build the proper gentleman.
       In their youths such chaps feel as if Hell is staring into a son's eyes. They embody his weakness, his disappointment. He wishes to sever these roots, protect the endangered species known as ‘Fathers.’ But with the crushing blows of time- attitudes carved from a dreadful fear of death- he is overcome by remorse. For whether they be found resting against an oak tree, sleeping next to a gutter, or rinsing their dentures inside of some seedy group home, Fathers will eventually cry out for our help.