heavy my heart

hard at times
to mind that humanity
takes its sustenance from
an endless timeless web
of love, and that the cult
of the individual is a lie.

neither kahn nor christ
neither king nor kaiser
neither me nor you
would have lasted
long
if someone
did not pick us up
and feed us after
the chord was cut.
in most cases and
i don't give a fuck
about statistics
nor statisticians
their crooked economies
and prevarications
the people that
picked us up
and fed us
were women,
sometimes supported.

Prior to the cutting
we were carried,
in the wet sac of a woman,
to emerge
in the frightening light
by the moist channel
of a cunt.

I am a man, of sorts maybe,
and i have fathered boys,
and i had a father.
for years, not ordinary years,
but the timeless endless years
of my childhood i watched
as only a curious and interested
child can watch,
as the man, my father,
not on a regular predictable schedule
but more the perfect intermittent
random schedule of his mad whim,
beat my mother
in her home
or bed at night
in earshot first
and then in full view
of her and his own children
us.

I hated him.
or thought i did
for the roar of hatred is louder
than the soft call of love
on which hatred sucks,
he was mad. or maddened,
not mad in the canadian sense
of angry mad,
but the insane mad destructiveness,
of illness.
and
i said openly
to those that would listen
that i wanted to live, to see him die.
so that i
could drink a bottle of whiskey
and piss on his grave for what
that bastard did
to my mother and us.
he was a popular man,
a man among men
a worker, provider
a chuchgoing respectable
man of his time,
he was expected
to keep his house in order and couldn't,
for the plans, of the brutish are thwarted,
by great anarchy bred,
in the bellies of the brutalized.

the gift of humanity is love.
giving, when feeling
one has nothing left to give,
to one judged undeserving,
sounding the measure,
humanity.

to the lucky, blessed enough to listen,
there comes a time
when ones own injuries
and deficiencies
more import than those judged.
it is then,
then; one cherishes the whisper
that ripples beneath the roar.
and a heavy heart is washed.
a man of sorts knows then,
that men,
popular men,
men among men,
respectable men,
workers, providers,
priests and politicians
those that need
to hate-fuck women
or children
are sick
hatred becomes
its object

i kissed my dad
in the box of death
listened to hear
the hollow thud
of of mud on wood
on my breath
my prayer
for his pain
and my piss
i pray
is in its place