Daddy said he wasn't good enough.

Daddy said he wasn't tough enough.

Daddy said he'd never be enough.

He didn't like to hunt because he thought it wrong to kill,

Not wanting to take life merely for the thrill.

Canvas and stage fronted his vainglorious naiveté.

But father said, “Don't be a fag, that shit will never pay.”

“Dad, I'm not gay, I just like these things.”

“Life isn't only football games, beer and boxing rings.”

And for the first time it was said:

“Why couldn't I have a real son?”

Cut were all ties to sworn love.

Entered his studio, marinating in rage;

Trampled “The Diggers” and slashed “Two Dancers on Stage.”

Years of work, thousands of hours,

Oceans of tears beauty devoured.

Days when he dreamed of his father bragging of him like pride,

Forgotten now; for so long they lived in one house, on opposite sides.

Work and wish dropped into a barrel with a final leer, unpeeling kid-gloves,

Lit matches one by one, leaving smoke and ash of this unpaid love.

He watched hope burn, a son moved on,

The well dried up when he felt his worth gone.

Home he went to a house built on last straws,

Swallowed father's scotch as he recounted his flaws.

Toasted to fanatics

And lives held static,

Nights forced to sleep in his car on swallowed tears, vomit, and plaid,

As well as days wasted sanctioning him as Dad.

On pent up feet, he found father's study.

Two heads over the mantle ran bones to putty.

His answer hung high atop that wall,

He looked around for a reason, but there was nothing to recall.

Stuffed-eyed brothers stared at him, what was he but one of them?

“Can't wait till father finds me, won't the neighbors just condemn him.”

Hand on handle,

Thinking, “Mom, I'll be there soon.”

Finger gripped trigger,

For sticks and stones to which he wasn't immune.

Barrel touched memories,

Not posed and frozen like photographs lies,

Mouth proud at his head,

From this hit, he won't cry.

A last swig stolen and he fulfilled.

Dropped, loose, elastic will,

Onto forgotten tears and jaded beliefs.

He lay dirty red within distance of relief.

From the floor he felt all eyes;

The carpet stained with humility and time.

Can't leave now, for what makes a man?

This, the long haul and contentment be damned.

Cursed with kin, cast with scorn,

Still alive, for himself he mourns.