mistguided (11/23/94)

gramma says
she heard
I was the last one
to talk with you

we sat on the
"front porch"
framed by
Chicago November twilight

I'm sure people passed by
saw nothing unusual
a pink faced man
his tow-headed boy

what did you
forget or remember
between me
and that vodka bottle?

Your final phrases
"there's a divinity that shapes our ends
rough hew them, though we may"
and
"the paths of glory lead but to the grave"

now I know why suicide notes
aren't all that interesting

how are you any different
from Kurt Cobain
or Jerzy Kozinski
noble, disillusioned souls
waging a losing battle
with pain expressly externalized

Oh yes, you struggled dad,
you hewed your little
piece of the rock

you bought mom
a gold watch
and a grand piano!

but in the end,
your appointed diety
had fixed your end
the bottom of a bottle
the locked bedroom chamber
your inaccessable soul

what did we say
I wonder
and
what did it matter?

Could I have changed your mind?
did that divinity ask me
about shaping your ends?

you chose one as intolerable
as your fitting end
it seems to me
as though you got
what you asked for

two lame cop outs
precisely profound
lose their depth
eleven years hence

whatever glorious path
you were on
you chose the wrong guide
and you blamed it on the map.

poetry | dad | life

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