A Strange Thing, Memory

It's the little things I remember.
The under-roos and the wrestling moves,
Saturday morning cartoons and spontaneous outbursts of song.
The Garbage Pail Kids stickers on everything
And the arguments over nothing.
It's a strange thing, memory.
How it dredges up the smallest, seemingly meaningless, events
And plays them over and over again.
Like my own personal drive in theater without the stale popcorn and heavy breathing.
You're gone, but my memory refuses to let you go.
Instead, insisting on reminding me of every peanut butter and jelly-stained sandwich we ever shared, every prank we ever pulled, every gray hair we ever caused our mother, and every second we ever wasted.
You're gone, and it's the little things I remember.
The nausea I felt when she told me you were dead.
The smell of sage and chemicals in the funeral home.
The way your hair fell softly away from your face as we said goodbye.
The kindness you inspired in strangers.
It's a strange thing, memory.
But it's all I have left of you.

Dangling Perceptions

The Gods
My mother
I hated them all once upon a time
Hate is a strong word
intentionally
Strong but inept
Afraid is better, more to the point
but weaker
And weakness is a sin
Sin
is a failure to meet all of the
expectations laid upon you, me, us
By the Gods
and Mom alike
I used to dangle
on their impending disappointment
my impending failure
They had no reflection, authority, purpose, except in me
Funny
In me
The one who hated them all.

Swimming

I watch as you drown
offer my hand
refused
You drown as I cry
offer my tears
accepted
You ask as I answer
offer more questions
ignored
We watch as we die
offer no resistance
expected

The pool is full.

Dry Desperation

My soul
cries out
low
to comfort
it
the child
the man
the woman
all confused
combined
contorted
lost
in a sea
of destinations
without
water.

Potential

For a brief moment
we both were me.
Inhabiting time and
space as one.
Parted too soon and
yet not soon enough.
Reluctantly torn from me.
Each of us screaming
and sighing in relief.
Where once you were
there is a void.
Only the question now-
If we were me,
without you,
who am I?

As of Yet, I Am

I am
an ass tomorrow I could die having spent today complaining about the burdens of my life
an ass
Self absorbed indulgent thick headed ignorant possession of my soul seemingly inescapable abyss of existential pity-Werther would be proud-what a quick study
I am
an ass some tomorrow I will die hoping that yesterday was spent on something other than myself-redemption
an ass

I Am, Daddy.

I am your daughter.
I was your biggest fan.
No more.

You know that you used to have five children.
And that somewhere you lost the oldest.

But you don't know your daughter.
Your pretty princess has been sacrificed
to the dragon of reality
so that you can maintain the illusion
that you are a god
and we are your faithful.
You also don't know that
You were a god to her.
No more.
That god is dead to this kid.

I am your daughter.
I was your biggest fan.
No more.