there isn’t any judgement like old school judgement, the trials and tribulations of gods and man, but this new world has more judgement and less holy myth

when i was a kid i would sit on this big rock at five every night, so excited for dad to come home

by seven i would be deflated and sit in my room reading when he would finally stumble in

never understood what kept him away from home, it just seemed so happy there

it wasn’t until i was older and saw the differences between my idyllic home and my friends that i figured it out

my mother taught me to shoplift when i was a boy, she didn’t outright teach me but i learned from watching

she thought she was slick, and she was damn good at it, but i was damn good at watching as well

she stole out of necessity, buttons and thread to patch clothes, calculators and implements for her too clever son

she was one of five, born in the dirt of the ozarks, her mother passed when she was young, her father a man of the earth

rural baptist, spare not the rod, spoil the child not an option

my dad was one of six, his dad gone by divorce and his older siblings by school and service

he was made the man of the house by default, too clever as well, repairing machines at his mom’s laundromat, self taught

he was not a church type, and he tried to spoil the child, even if the means wasn’t always there

they met too young, without a chance to figure things out she got pregnant, and they tried to do what was right

he rushed to the hospital, maroon pants and a line green shirt with a flared collar, stuffed giraffe under his arm

all was right for a moment, or at least the attempts were made

he was cursed with an open heart, far too caring and sweet, she was cursed with me, both unable to grow up, thrust into adulthood at seventeen

he pushed his boulder up the steep incline every morning, i was her burden to bear

when i was just one she was pregnant again, but barely able to make ends meet, a hard choice was made

my aunt taught me to use the toilet, a water balloon between her legs with needle hole to show me aim

it’s funny the pixelated things you either remember or have fooled yourself into thinking you did

dad’s sweet heart was shattered when my sister was put up for adoption, the bottle became his sense of comfort

niether of them ever quite recovered from the experience, and as result my childhood became nestled in a house of cards, always teetering, slowly falling apart

dad’s youngest sister had always been the baby of the family, until i came along,needless to say she didn’t enjoy the usurper to her throne much

when i was little she took me to the park and explained i was bastard, then added because of me my sister was given away, a sister i had no idea existed

it was a nice chat about how i ruined everyone’s lives, i kept it inside for eleven years, but it ate away at me the entire time

it made the beatings feel deserved, the mental and physical attacks no worse than the ones i submitted myself to, a fun pastime that continues to this day

when i was thirteen my mother grew fed up waiting for dad to come home for dinner and went to the bar to retrieve him

instead she retrieved the destruction of her flimsy life, he was at the bar with another lady on his lap

i began cutting myself in the whirlwind of falling cards, the joker landing face up on the welling blood

they cohabitated for a year, a string of him not coming home and me left trapped with her unbridled rage

a choice was given, to live with her or him, and fed up with and seeking freedom, i chose him, the path of least resistance

he did his best, having fallen so far into his demons, and me, a teen with raging hormones and an empty house, well, i did my worst

smoking and drinking, skipping school and dropping acid, trying to write my feelings into verse, sloppy childish things

at seventeen i brought a case of beer to my favorite aunt, and as we drank i finally gave voice to the things i knew forever

she was shocked but confirmed them to be true, not painted by brush strokes of anger and venom but with understanding

always doubt had whispered into my ear, had I remembered incorrectly, but i can hear the words, feel the wind on the sunny fall day, the cracked sidewalk

i had a sister out there, somewhere, and no matter what i blamed myself for her loss, that bitter pill always caught in the back of my throat erupted like a fountain of true self loathing

the mythology of my youth, the fragmented stories of the fall from grace, the whispering words tumbling in depression

that best lies infused with a grain of truth, until you are unable to sepearate the real from false, so entwined in your soul and being that there soon becomes no difference

the real american story of a false poet, a shadow of a man, scribbler of verse and screamer of lies, strangled on the cries of his own lack of character