since we last talked
(if yelling is talking),
and i got mad,
and you got mad;
we all got mad,
and in the end
i gave you up
and the ensuing silence said
“you aren’t my father,
and you never were,
and you never will be,
and i never want to see you again.”

and there’s nothing like death
to draw me back,
to bring me back to say
“you gave me some of the best times
of my life, and I don’t know
who I would be without you,
and i love you, despite your fuck-ups;”
the very things that i can’t say,
that i never will say,
as you lie dead
in a morgue
in pueblo,
colorado.

I’ve stepped in to a strange
contorted world of your own
machinations
(unless it’s just the glass(es)
that I’m looking through
changing the view)

and all the while we dream
of doing something with our
own creations
(but we both know the lies
we tell our selves won’t
turn out true)

should we step outside?
breathe deep the fresh air?
consider possibilities
that all the things we’re aiming for
are not what we’ll turn out to be?

or do we SHUT THE FUCK UP
like we said we would before?
let’s just do the thing already
let’s not dwaddle anymore

let’s turn off your machinations
and pick up our old creations
let’s, in other words,
take our stethoscopes and
walk